Cabin Pressure
by Hikari no Chibi
Summary: Cabin Pressure AU, adapted from the BBC Radio 4 Series by John Finnemore. This is some light humor and romance set around a plane called Juliette and her unlikely crew: the steely owner, Mr. Gold; the bumbling Captain, David Nolan; the sly First Officer, Jefferson Madden; and the beguiling flight attendant, Belle French. Rumbelle.
1. Atlanta

Gold gritted his teeth as Juliette lurched in the air. The cheeky tones of the cabin address going bing-bong punctuated the groans of half a ton of trembling metal.

Half a second later, the voice of his regrettable first officer filled the sixteen-passenger jet.

"Apologies for the turbulence, folks, but you know how it is — the Captain and I were just fixing ourselves scones with jam and cucumber sandwiches on our ten-piece tea service. Distractions will happen. Luckily, it's my turn to pour — the Captain sloshed everywhere on take-off, I'm sure you felt the china chip — but I've got the kettle and saucers well in hand. Of course, that doesn't leave much room to actually fly the plane, but…"

"Jefferson!" the Captain groaned in the background, and the speakers switched off. They hit turbulence again.

Flight – flying in a giant metal tube thousands of feet above the ground, specifically – was an abomination of nature and science, as far as Gold was concerned. That he owned and operated a charter plane, in addition to his other enterprises, must have been a cruel trick of fate.

If men were meant to fly, they'd have wings; if metal was meant to fly, it bloody-well wouldn't form in the center of the Earth. Miss French, his clever stewardess, had attempted to explain once that the combined forces of lift, weight, thrust, and drag conspired together with Bernoulli's Principle – the increased speed caused by air flowing over the curved, upper-half of the wing – to propel the aircraft quite reliably, so long as they maintained the correct take-off and landing weights and a reasonably maintained fuel tank.

Of course, that bloody well didn't explain how planes managed to fly upside down or perform the acrobatic loops he associated with sport pilots, like that bastard Jones. So far as he was concerned, the highly scientific explanation "we don't actually know" wasn't comforting.

Juliette hit turbulence again and Gold clung to his seat. There was no logical explanation for flight, just as there was no logical explanation for why he so regularly endured it. It all came down to spite – humanity's need to spite the natural order by building wings, and his own deeply personal need to spite Milah. He'd be damned if the JLY-RGR sat in a hangar when he could be flaunting it in front of his ex-wife and her damn fly-boy on the tarmac.

The plane lurched, Gold paled, and he prayed for a stiff Scotch to soothe his troubles.

…

"Oh my," Belle cooed, buckling into a seat across the aisle from Mr. Gold. She passed him half of a whiskey — the other half had sloshed over her fingers and onto the floor — with an apologetic grin. "The pilots do get carried away with the cabin address on cargo flights, don't they?"

Gold mumbled his assent and downed his drink in a single gulp.

"Don't worry," she prattled on. "Juliette's a tough old bird."

Far from being comforted, Gold looked as though he meant to be ill on his shoes. She'd never understood why a business owner and prolific landlord who also ran a lucrative legal practice chose to spend his days running a charter airline that hemorrhaged money. Or, more accurately, why he tended to fly with them, when he wasn't busy, even on flights like this one, where they shuttled crates of old museum pieces back and forth.

Technically speaking, the pilots were more than capable… well, they were adequately capable, of managing these flights all by themselves. Honestly, they didn't even need her except to bring the coffee they were too lazy to get up and make themselves, though she was certainly grateful for the work.

When Juliette evened out, Belle set to work tidying the cabin and wiping down the galley. Whatever the reason, she didn't mind flying when it was just the pilots and Mr. Gold; it made for less work all-around, and it was always entertaining. Still, a keen observer would note that — far from the international globe-trotting she'd aspired to when she applied for this job — she was essentially employed with a glorified delivery service.

Not to say that they didn't get abroad. Who could forget the time they flew a documentary crew to the Congo to film mountain gorillas? She saw a whole swath of Africa, from the air, and even got to leave the airport for an hour or so. Or the time that funny man who insisted on night-flights to Hong Kong, so they'd done seven different legs of a trip so that the plane was never flying when the sun came up. She spent a whole three hours in London, that trip.

Well, it wasn't as though Storybrooke had an international airport, or a very cosmopolitan client-base, for that matter. M3P, Gold's airline — air dot, he called it, since you couldn't put one jet in a line — shared the Storybrooke hangar with two or three private planes, a sea plane, five sport planes, and an emergency services helicopter. So, on the whole, she got to travel a bit and still got to come home and take care of her father, which just wouldn't have been an option flying out of places like JFK or Newark.

Now if only she could get Mr. Gold to calm down and the pilots to take things a little more seriously.

"All I'm saying," she heard Jefferson preening from the cockpit, "is that a riddle game is a better way to spend the flight than playing the Flight Manual Quiz Game. It's not my fault you lack imagination, David, really."

"Why is a raven like a writing desk is is not a real riddle, Jefferson," David groaned. "It's just more of your typical nonsense. Besides, we have to review the Flight Manual – it's a Federal regulation."

Jefferson gasped, offended, and Belle stifled a giggle. Well, maybe they didn't have to take things too seriously. After all, their combined antics certainly livened-up the place. David was just such a Boy Scout — so easy to wind up — and Jefferson… Well, there was a reason Jefferson had been fired from every major airline with terminals in Maine. He tended to the eccentric, and he liked to push people's buttons.

The plane hit some mild turbulence again, and the Captain announced that they were nearing their descent.

Belle could see Gold white-knuckled in his seat – he hated landings almost as much as he hated take-offs, which was saying something - and she grabbed a packet of biscuits from the cupboard. The poor man — he always needed a distraction — and she'd been clever enough to stock up on his favorites the last time they stopped-over in Scotland.

"Jammy Dodger?" she offered, pulling one out of the sleeve for herself.

Gold grimaced and ignored her. Funny, usually a biscuit did the trick. Belle wrapped two of them in a napkin, bent down, and tucked them inside his suit pocket – not concerned in the least if she got crumbs on his pocket square. Mr. Gold just stared at her, dumbfounded, like she'd sprouted an extra head. She turned to move up the cabin when his voice snapped at her.

"Will you please sit down before you bloody-well break something?"

Yep, that was Mr. Gold — terrified to fly, too proud to drive, and laboring to maintain the illusion that a flimsy bit of nylon across his lap might prevent anything bad from happening.

She took her seat next to him after securing the galley, and they landed after twenty minutes of awkward silence. David really needed to get a better grasp of the "beginning our descent" time-line.

…

"Explain to me again," snarled Gold, staring down his nose at his cut-rate pilots. "How we ended up in Crabapple Cove instead of Storybrooke?"

"Well, you see Mr. Gold," Jefferson began, exuding that easy confidence that clung to him like a second skin. Gold envied him that, sometimes.

"Not you," he snapped. "I want to hear it from the Captain." He rounded on David Nolan like a flash.

"There was a holding queue at Storybrooke, and we were low on fuel, so I diverted, per standard air safety protocol," Nolan informed him, jaw quivering a little.

"And you didn't think to announce that change to the cabin? You bloody well announce everything else."

"No, because you would have tried to talk me out of it," David responded, as though it were the most simple, obvious answer in the wrold.

"Damn straight I would!" growled Gold. "Do you know how much it costs to land at Crabapple Cove? How much I'll pay in landing fees, take-off fees — God forbid that we'll need a hangar overnight — and never-mind the cargo being late!" Spittle flew from his lips, but Gold had no intention of stopping.

"I can't compromise air safety for econo—"

"You bloody well will if you want to keep working! I—"

A soft, small hand patted his shoulder.

"Air traffic control says we can take off in thirty minutes, once they're done refueling, as long as the Captain files the flight plan soon," Belle informed him, and the good bit of shouting he'd intended to do got stuck in his throat.

"Fine. Thank you… Miss French."

She smiled like he'd offered her a diamond, and excused herself back to the cabin. If his cheeks were flushed, he damn sure wasn't going to acknowledge it in front of the likes of Jefferson and Nolan – both of whom were shooting furtive looks at him.

"I'll make you a deal, dearies," Gold hissed, taking back the upper hand in a few quick syllables. "You're flying to Atlanta in two days, bringing me a shipment of ante-belleum antiquities for my shop. You get back to Storybrooke on time, on budget, with no unnecessary scratches or nicks, and I'll pay you each an extra hundred dollars.

"But," he emphasized this with all the venom of a cobra about to strike, "if you botch it up, like you bungle everything, then you owe me a favor each. Deal?"

"No! We —"

"Deal!" Jefferson blurted, cutting David off. Gold sneered: you could always count on Jefferson to keep things interesting, at the very least.

"No! Why would you agree to that, Jefferson? You know I never—"

But whatever David's objections, Gold didn't care in the least. He turned and walked away, arm tingling a bit where Belle – Miss French – had touched his sleeve.

…

"You should have let me jump us to the front of the landing queue," Jefferson groused at David when they were safely on the ground, back in Storybrooke.

"Striking a match and telling the Tower you smell smoke in the cockpit is not standard flight-deck procedure," the Captain replied, utterly without humor.

Jefferson groaned. Sometimes he thought David knew less about flying than a penguin, but the two stripes on his sleeve to Nolan's three meant that David was in charge, and the blonde Boy Scout knew it too. Damn Gold three times over for that nasty piece of work; David Nolan couldn't even give his wife a Valentine's card without causing a small-town scandal and a scene with his mistress on Main Street. Whoever thought he ought to be in command of an aircraft needed their head examined.

But that was Gold all over, wasn't it? He'd rather an uncertain, easily intimidated Captain like David – a _safe pilot_, Gold called him – than a charismatic, sky-wise, _actually good_ pilot like Jefferson. And, keeping Jefferson on as First Officer, he ensured that he had a safe pilot in charge of a good pilot at all times. Not that it did anything to improve the old skinflint's moods.

"I'm the Captain, Jefferson," David unnecessarily reminded him. "I'm in command, so if I say we divert, then—"

"Divert we shall?" Jefferson finished for him. It was a speech he'd heard more times than he could count from the younger, less experienced up-start.

Though they were the same age, Jefferson took to the sky like a lark, whereas David was more of a duck. Or an ostrich. Jefferson had been piloting planes with the Civil Air Patrol since before he could even drive a car, qualified for his license at 18, and made a good living in his younger days, before he'd been caught smuggling Cuban cigars; David only barely qualified at age 33, after a failed career as a veterinary assistant and a Sheriff's deputy. If Nolan made him call him "Sir" or "Skipper" one more time…

"Yes, actually," David nodded, and it took all of the First Officer's considerable self-control not to roll his eyes. "So that time we diverted because your watch alarm went off, that was an entirely reasonable use of your Captainly authority? Or the time—"

"It was a new watch, with a very odd alarm," the Captain hedged.

"Right, well, since you're the Captain I'll leave the flight plan and cargo supervision to you when we go to Atlanta, shall I? I'm sure Gold won't want anything unreasonable for a favor, like an un-paid flight to Montreal over the Easter holidays." They both winced at that memory, and left the air field for the day.

…

David checked his altimeters three times in two minutes, but they got off the ground in Atlanta without so much as a rumble. Mr. Gold wasn't flying with them today — he always missed the flights where David managed to get it right, didn't he? — and Belle brought them their coffees right on schedule.

"Do you know," David mentioned to Jefferson, "We'll actually arrive early if these tailwinds keep up."

"That'll cook Gold's goose," the co-pilot grinned. Though he was being spectacularly unhelpful, it did help to have company. Flights could get terribly boring when it was just one person, alone in the cockpit.

They didn't have much in common — Jefferson always thought he knew best, always had a smart answer on par with one of Gold's infamous quips — but they'd agreed , at last, that taking $100 of the old miser's money was grounds enough for a truce. Or at least for Jefferson not to sabotage him too much.

And, indeed, it couldn't have gone better. The antiques they needed to transport were in the hangar, as scheduled; the movers loaded them into the hold without dropping anything — and he even remembered to turn off the hold heating to keep it from getting humid. Gold wouldn't have anything to criticize about that, as long as the cargo straps held tight.

"Gold's Goose… Oh, that's a fun game!" cheered Jefferson.

"What is?" David asked, getting comfortable in his seat.

"Alliterative euphemisms. Gold's Goose. Belle's Buttons."

"Hey!" Belle objected, swatting him upside the head. After a beat, she added, "Jefferson's Juice."

"We'll accept that!" the co-pilot hooted. "Well?"

"Well what?" asked David.

"It's your turn, come on!"

"Oh, uh…." David hated their word games. He was bad at them, frankly, and beyond that, Jefferson, Belle, and Gold all had silver tongues. "Gold's… Grouse?" he tried.

"Boo!" hissed Jefferson. "Try again."

David was spared having to 'try again' when the satellite phone rang.

"M3P Air, Captain Nolan speaking," he answered in his most professional tone. "Yes, this is Juliet-Lima-Yankee. Yes, the swish one. Yes... No. Oh, no. Um… I'll confer with my first officer and call you back."

"What was that?" Belle asked, leaning over his shoulder to look out the fuselage.

"That was the Tower at Atlanta. Apparently their, uh, very pregnant hangar cat has gone missing. And, uh, the last place they saw her was napping in one of Gold's old wardrobes. They wanted to make sure we, uh, knew about it."

"Oh no," Jefferson sighed. "David, no. I know that look. We're not diverting. For a hypothetical cat? No."

"But Jefferson!" Belle championed. "It's just a mum looking for a place to have her kittens. We could divert quickly and—"

"No," Jefferson insisted. "I'm not owing Gold another favor over this. Besides, the cat will be fine. Gold always sets his hold to the ambient temperature on the ground when we're hauling antiques, and it was a balmy 70 degrees in Atlanta today."

Oh, no. No, no, no, no…

"That's, uh, not exactly right," David admitted. "I turned it down."

"You turned it down?"

"Off, actually. I thought it would get humid! It's, uh, bad for the wood, right?"

"Oh no," Jefferson groaned. David thought that summed things up perfectly.

"Well we've got to divert, then," Belle concluded primly.

"For a cat?" David countered, second-guessing himself at every turn. "That's what you want me to tell Gold? That we diverted for a pregnant cat which may or may not be in our hold."

"It's Schrodinger's Litter," Jefferson snarked.

"What do you think, Jefferson?" David finally asked, hands fidgeting with the controls. Gold would kill him – actually kill him - if he touched down for anything less than a missing wing or a burnt-out engine.

"That's your decision, Skipper," Jefferson replied, unhelpful as ever.

"I hardly think Mr. Gold would be upset that you stopped to save a life — many lives!" Belle tried again.

He wouldn't be mad at _Belle_, David thought privately. Belle could do no wrong in Gold's eyes, though she seemed oblivious to this fact.

"Uh… Jefferson… how long does it take a cat in the hold to freeze to death? We're only 3 hours from home now, so…"

"Less than three hours," Jefferson told him, not waiting for him to finish.

"But it's not like they'd be able to tell how it died, right?" He needed to stay calm. David could think his way out of this. He _could_. He just needed to focus on the problem and not panic.

The co-pilot grinned, but kept his mouth shut. Jefferson never had this problem - the First Officer _always_ had a plan - but David wouldn't put it past him to concoct a plan that caused a mother cat and her kittens to freeze to death.

"It will definitely die if you don't divert," Belle told him, and that was all it took to decide. He liked animals – who didn't? – and it wasn't fair to risk killing one due to his own negligence.

David picked up his radio and called down to Air Traffic Control at the nearest landing strip.

"Juliette-Lima-Yankee here, we uh… we need to make an unscheduled landing."

"Have you got an emergency?" the voice on the other side asked.

"Well, uh…" The words simply weren't forming.

Then, like a guiding devil perched on his shoulder, Jefferson struck a single match on the console.

"I think I smell smoke in the flight deck, Captain. Do you smell smoke in the flight deck?"

David sighed with an air of finality. "Yes, Jefferson, I do."


	2. Bermuda

_Bing-bong_.

"Your seat belt fastens like this and unfastens like this," Gold growled, demonstrating the process. "If you value your lives, keep it buckled at all times and avoid the toilets at all cost. Anyone with questions on the precise function of the flushing mechanism should disembark _immediately_. There are flotation devices under your seats, which you may not touch unless you're in eminent danger of drowning, and oxygen masks will drop if you are in danger of suffocating. Illogical as it may seem, you cannot use the oxygen masks in the event of a drowning…."

The passengers looked on in grim horror and fascination as Gold continued his disaster-fraught safety demonstration, amplified by the cabin address system.

Belle had to bite her lips to stop from giggling. He always insisted on co-attending their fuller flights (if he didn't have something unusually pressing to keep him in Storybrooke) and since he didn't care to fetch the pilots' drinks and prepare the passengers' coffee tray… well, it certainly made for interesting listening.

In the cockpit, she could hear Jefferson and David playing another game.

"Are you wearing glasses?" David asked warily.

"Nope!"

"An over-coat?"

"Wrong again," the co-pilot chirped.

"Just tell me, Jefferson," David sighed. He always lost their games, and today it sounded like Jefferson was just annoyed enough to toy with the Captain's before take-off. It was clearly a trick question, though Belle had no idea who the co-pilot would possibly be describing. Perhaps it was her? He'd kept David guessing for five hours on a flight to Juno, once, by twisting words around so that the more straight-forward man didn't catch on.

"No," Jefferson complained. "That totally defeats the purpose of Passenger Guess Who. Come on — I'm not a man, I'm not Belle, I'm not wearing glasses, and I'm not wearing an over-coat. Who am I?"

"Jefferson, there were only two female passengers on the plane. One of them had bifocals and the other—"

"Ah, but you're assuming that I'm a human being!" Jefferson preened.

"Jefferson!" David bristled, and Belle had to stifle another giggle.

"Fine," Jefferson pouted. "I'm Gold. Happy now, spoil sport?"

Both of them shared a conspiratorial chuckle, but Belle felt intensely sorry for her eavesdropping as she hovered over their start-of-flight cheese tray.

…

Half an hour through their "business retreat" charter to Bermuda, Gold was just about at the end of his tolerance for their self-loading freight. If the passenger in 3B accidentally brushed up against Belle's legs one more time… He growled audibly.

Belle was perfectly capable of defending her own honor, of course, and she'd told Mr. Reeve in no uncertain terms that he was to keep his hands to himself. But the bastard had done them one better, insinuating that his rather costly ticket for their little charter entitled him to certain liberties. And, if she didn't come complimentary with the service, what was the point of having her?

He'd diligently busied himself making tea when she returned to the galley with tears in her eyes.

Gold prided himself on providing a respectable, safe work-place. Miss French deserved every courtesy — and on top of that, she was an exceptionally reliable employee. Replacing her was… not something Gold entertained as a possibility. He even toyed with the idea of sending Jefferson back there to deal with the menace, maybe even dressing him up in David's ludicrously ornate Captain's hat for the occasion, but in the end he decided against it. Jefferson was clever, could always get them out of a pinch with one of his schemes, but he didn't have the same gravitas and severity of a man whose primary skill was said to be intimidation, followed-up by preying on the desperate. He hated the passengers – hated interacting with them mid-flight, especially – but for a chance to set a lecher like Reeve straight, he'd make an exception.

"I'll take that dearie," he said, placing his palms on the drink trolley when Belle finished filling a bucket with ice. No need to tempt fate or his temper any further today.

"Really?" Belle asked, eyes still puffy. "But you hate serving."

"It's more distracting than staying cooped up in the galley," he lied, making a general gesture to the plane. Besides, he owned the plane and could do what he liked; it was as good a case as any for giving him his own way as any.

"Well, alright…" Belle replied. "Don't forget to give everyone a napkin and check if they want sugar or artificial sweetener for their coffee," she instructed, as though he'd never handled a drink trolley. Well, come to think of it, he hadn't really.

"Oh, and we're out of orange juice – the man ordering screwdrivers in 6B finished the carton already – but there's cranberry juice and apple juice, and it wouldn't hurt to push the red wine – we've had it in the fridge for three months already."

"I'm sure I can manage," Gold grimaced, trying to smile reassuringly and failing spectacularly.

When he turned to step away, she caught him round the waist, pressed a quick hug into his back, and the world went hazy.

"And, Mr. Gold…Thanks," she whispered, releasing him as suddenly as she'd reached for him.

"It's no matter…," he choked out before walking away. Fortunately, the little beverage kart gave him enough stabilization that he didn't need his cane.

Three coffees and a ginger ale later, he arrived at Reeve with a scowl on his face and a warm, fuzzy feeling at the base of his spine.

"Care for a drink, dearie?"

"I'd take a sip of that stewardess, if the price is right. Does she come complimentary with service, or is it extra?" Reeve leered, as though soliciting prostitutes on an air craft was somehow the most mundane of occurrences.

"She's not for sale," Gold snarled, slamming a hot coffee down on the passenger's fold-out tray. A good portion of it sloshed over the side, scalding Gold's fingers, but most of it landed squarely in Mr. Reeve's lap. The man's face went red and he yelped in pain. Good, let him suffer.

"So sorry," Gold sneered as he reached over and blotted the mess with some napkins, crushing every tender bit within his reach. I have you by the balls, he wanted to say. Touch her again and I'll squeeze.

Reeve slapped his hand away.

"I'll have your job for this, you crippled freak," he howled. "I'll call your manager — I'll call the damn owner! Do you have any idea how much we paid for this trip? Do you have any idea who I am?"

"I _am_ the owner," Gold clarified, a dark sneer on his face. The other passengers were staring in rapt attention, most of them embarrassed by the scene, with faces that said 'oh, not this again' in painfully clear writing. Good. It would be harder for Reeve to retaliate if he had a history of behaving this way.

"Dearie," he whispered, pressing close to the man's ear so that none of the others could hear, "if you compromise the safety of my crew again, I'll have no choice but to escort you off the plane. And, if you're very lucky, I may even ask the pilots to land her first."

Reeve wrenched violently away from him, choked on blood, and – to Gold's horror and amazement – passed out.

…

"Are you wearing an ugly tie?" asked Jefferson, balancing out the plane with a slight flick of the controls.

"That's subjective," David objected.

"Fine," Jefferson groaned. "Are you wearing a _very_ ugly tie?"

"… Yes," David answered, after a beat. Jefferson grinned — he knew the Captain would see things his way, given enough time. Besides, what fun was Passenger Guess Who without a little speculation? When you asked someone if – yes or no - the Passenger was more likely to be a heroin addict than a mass murderer, things tended to get zesty.

David's questions were always so boring, though. Of course he'd guess the right one, eventually, if he kept asking about obvious things like hair color and gender. Just as Jefferson was about to announce that David was, in fact, the man in 8A, Belle burst into the cabin and ruined the game.

"We have a problem," she gulped.

"Oh, who died?" Jefferson shot back. Belle was a very intelligent woman – book smart, and a reader – but she was so clumsy, innocent, and curious that small things – like the answer to 'what would happen if I stuck a whole vanilla bean in with the coffee?' –often turned into first-degree burns and a flooded (but lovely smelling) galley.

"The man in 3B, I think," Belle paled, and Jefferson knew right away that she wasn't joking.

"Wh... what?" David stammered. "Right. Right. Emergency protocol… Ground control, we have a passenger emergency and need to go back to Storybrooke immediately."

"What's happened?" asked the woman on the other end of the line.

David and Jefferson both looked at Belle expectantly.

"I think Mr. Gold scared him to death," she breathed.

"Right," the woman from ATC replied. "You do know that it's not even close to Halloween?"

"Please!" Belle begged, ripping the transmitter out of David's hand without so much as a by-your-leave. "A passenger bit his own tongue in half, I think. There's blood everywhere, and he's choking. I did as much first aid as I could, but he needs urgent medical help."

Jefferson could see Belle coming apart at the seams. He shot David a look that said 'handle this or else…,' got to his feet, and went to help Gold with the man in the galley.

…

"I'll re-route you through to Baltimore," the air traffic agent advised, providing them with a new heading.

"Baltimore?" David blinked. Somewhere behind him, Belle was shaking like a leaf.

"Yes, is that a problem? It's much closer than Storybrooke, and it's twenty minutes closer than Bermuda. They have excellent hospitals."

"Oh, uh… no. No, I suppose not. Thanks." He turned off the radio and adjusted their course. Then he turned on the cabin address and made an announcement:

"Hey folks, Captain Nolan here… it seems we've suffered an unexpected passenger emergency and will have to divert to Baltimore for medical treatment. So sorry for the delay, but it is… uh, you know, to save a man's life."

No more than thirty seconds later, Gold stormed in. Nothing was going David's way today.

"What the hell are you thinking?" his employer snapped.

"Well, you know, I thought I'd get the bleeding man to a hospital." If it was possible, Belle went paler.

"And what are they going to do about it, screw bolts in the corpse and call Dr. Frankenstein?"

"What?" David gaped.

"He's dead," Gold announced with an air of finality. "Tomorrow is rent-collection day, and since there's bound to be an investigation, I've no intention of being stranded in a Baltimore police station overnight."

"He… he died?" Belle asked, a whimper in her voice.

Gold's attention focused on her immediately, and his words stalled-out mid tirade. He tended to do that around Belle, David had noticed, and it was a useful thing to know about the Storybrooke Beast. Or, it would be a useful thing to know, for someone like Jefferson who was at all clever about these sorts of things. As Gold cupped Belle's cheek, David blushed – gave them a mental curtain of privacy – and got ATC back on the line.

"What is it this time?" the woman snapped.

"We, uh… need to cancel our emergency," he confessed.

"Oh, did he get better?" came her snide reply.

"No. No, he, uh… he died. So we'd like to carry on to Bermuda, please."

"Alright, it's not my business if you want to transport human remains across international borders." She re-confirmed the original route and dropped the line. David turned on the cabin address for the second time in as many minutes.

"Hey guys, Captain Nolan again. It, uh, turns out that we're not going to Baltimore, we're going to Bermuda after all. Since the passenger in question, uh… died. Crap, I wasn't supposed to say that. Sorry. Crap! Um, that's all, please fasten your seat belts and secure all seat-backs and tray-tables."

…

After a quick assessment of the situation, Jefferson pushed his way past Gold, Belle, and the unfortunate Mr. Reeve in the galley and immediately set the captain straight.

"What the hell are you doing, David?" Jefferson demanded. "We don't know for sure that he's dead! We need to get him to a hospital, take us back to Baltimore."

"But Gold said—"

"Screw Gold, get him to a hospital!"

"But it's, uh… rent day tomorrow," David tried, as though that explained anything.

"David!" Jefferson roared, "You are the Captain! What you say goes. Gold can't boss you around and bully you up here. You can ignore him, you can ignore Belle, and — I'll never repeat this again — you can even ignore me. You. Are. In. Charge."

"So… back to Baltimore, then?"

"Yes!" Jefferson roared. "It's the right thing to do, I would have expected you to know that!"

The wide-eyed man reached for the radio, then paused.

"Could… could you talk to ATC for me?" David asked him, passing off the receiver sheepishly. "The woman at ATC sort of, uh, intimidates me."

Jefferson resigned himself to the fact that this was his life now, took the radio, and smoothed things over with the surly air traffic controller.

…

Forty five minutes and one frantic ambulance call later, the EMTs arrived to tend to Mr. Reeve. Belle didn't know what was worse — that a man had died so horribly on their plane, or that the paramedics wouldn't take away the body. The police were already taking statements in the terminal.

"You need to call the coroner," one of the paramedics instructed.

"But they'll be busy with the big fire in the Inner Harbor," the other added, "so you'll probably have to wait until after 8."

"But you work for the hospital!" Gold insisted. "You're going back there anyway! I demand that you take him!"

He was flustered, more so than Belle had ever seen, and he kept shooting her side-long glances that made her feel guilty for taking advantage of his comfort in the midst of their emergency. He was clearly worried she would take the gesture the wrong way.

"I'm sorry, sir, but that's just not the way we do things," the first paramedic replied. "The police are just about done – it sounds like they'll rule it an accident, so you don't have to worry on that account – but you can't leave until the scene is cleared. I'm sorry."

Belle didn't know what to do — it was the first time she'd ever had to deal with anything so gory. And she'd done what she was trained to do — responded quickly, professionally, and sanitized everything — but she fell to pieces as soon as she crossed the flight deck threshold. Mr. Reeve wasn't even a nice guy — he was a handsy creep with a drinking problem! – and she was crying that he'd died, how embarrassing.

When no one said anything, she feared that they really would have to spend the next few hours locked in the plane with a dead body. Or worse – they'd be hauled in for police questioning. Then something amazing happened.

"Listen, I am an airline Captain," David announced in a voice so stately it might have belonged to royalty. "And I say that man is definitely alive. In fact, I just saw him move. He pointed at you, and made a little gesture telling you to hurry up. So, you can either take him with you, back to the hospital, or we can spend the next three hours filing a malpractice suite. Mr. Gold, you're a lawyer, aren't you?"

He was, of course.

"Excellent. And, in event of an inquiry, if it turns out to be a simple misunderstanding brought about by rigor mortis, won't I feel silly? But in the meantime, I will drown you in red tape. So do we have an understanding?"

What followed could only be described as a miracle. The paramedics looked at each other, called for a gurney, and took the body away. They were cleared for take-off a little after sunset.

…

"And now, back to Storybrooke!" David enthused, his police interview complete. He'd told them all about it, of course – how he'd single-handedly saved the day and got the victim removed from the plane. The police seemed impressed – well, they took a lot of notes, anyway – and (apart from a small tussle with the TSA), he really couldn't imagine a passenger death going more smoothly. All they had to do now was load the passengers back in and get clearance for take-off; Mr. Gold would be home in time for rent-collection day, and he'd still have a job come morning.

"I think not," Gold corrected, and all the Captain could do was gawk at him.

"Why not?"

"We've still got 15 passengers with tickets for Bermuda," Gold drawled, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"We can't… we can't seriously be taking them to Bermuda! A man has just died – a man they knew well." Besides, if they pressed on for Bermuda now, he and Jefferson would both be outside of their legal flying hours. They'd have to spend the night and a good portion of tomorrow afternoon on the island, which meant hotel fees, hangar fees, and at least two meals on their expense card. And it wasn't like they had a lot of economy options in Bermuda either, it was a resort town.

"Well I'm not issuing them a refund, so I suggest you adjust that flight plan, if you want to remain employed," Gold growled.

"Now listen, I am the Captain on this craft, and I say—"

"What does M3P stand for?" Gold challenged. David blanched under the severity of his glare.

He took stock of his surroundings and adjusted his Captain's hat before answering.

"My Money, My Plane," David miserably replied.

"Exactly," Gold confirmed. "So we are going, Captain, to Bermuda. Got it?"

"Yes, Sir," David sighed. If he was very, very lucky, Gold had already calculated that they would be outside of their legal flight hours and had made peace with it. If he was very unlucky, he would be in for an all-night shouting match as the man tried to get him to break regulations and leave Bermuda early. But it just wasn't feasible - Mr. Gold was absolutely not getting hom in time to collect rent tomorrow morning.

Before David had too much time to stew on the possibilities, Belle came inadvertently to his rescue.

"If we have to stay overnight, do you think we'll have time to visit the beach?" she asked, already making the best of a bad situation. "I brought my bikini, you know, just in case."

Gold looked ready for a heart attack at that statement, and David just prayed that this trip wouldn't add _two_ dead bodies to his resume.


	3. Cape Canaveral

Jefferson chuckled to himself as David struggled to make the next move in their rousing game of Word Ladders.

"Come on," his co-pilot riled him. "Love to Hate in three moves, it's staring you in the face."

"Love, uh… Dove, Dave…"

"Wrong," Jefferson hooted. "Wrong, wrong, wrong. You've got to think strategically!"

David just groaned and slouched into his seat. They'd been sitting on the flight deck for almost an hour now, quietly amusing themselves while Gold lurked around the M3P offices at the airstrip. After a reasonably-successful flight to New York and back, neither of them especially wanted to be shouted at by the furious Scotsman over budgetary complaints.

Their little diversion to Baltimore and lay-over in Bermuda had cost the company (had cost Gold, technically) a pretty penny, and he'd been nothing but miserly for the past few weeks.

"Just tell me already," David pleaded.

Jefferson took pity on him for a change. "Love, Lave, Late, Hate. See? Easy."

"What the hell does 'lave' mean?" asked David hotly. "I think you just made that up."

To be fair, Jefferson made up lots of things. It was a testament to the man's sheer charisma and keenness of wit that he very often managed to make-good on his nonsensical, maddening claims before anyone of real import called him on it. Of course, if those arrangements weren't exactly legal, well… David didn't like to think about it. Men like Jefferson needed to be watched carefully.

"I did not!" Jefferson insisted, taking umbrage at the thought. He pulled it up on his smart phone, just to prove the point, and David had to admit he was right.

"It means 'to wash or bathe,' but if you want my opinion people are using it to mean something a bit sexy these days," the co-pilot winked.

"Jeff—"

But whatever objections he meant to raise to Jefferson's insinuations about the English language, David was cut off by the sound of Juliette's satellite phone ringing.

"Hello?" David asked, and Jefferson inched in close to hear what the person on the other line was saying. Only four or five people had that number, and the two of them were already on the plane.

"Nolan, what the hell are you and Madden still doing on the plane?" demanded Gold's angry voice. "I've been waiting for you in my office for half an hour."

"Yeah," David sighed. "We thought that might have been the case."

"Well then come in here _now_. I want to talk to you."

"You do? Really?" the Captain asked. He risked a glance at Jefferson who, for a change, looked just as surprised as he was.

"No, dearie, of course not. But I have something I need to tell you. Hurry the hell up," Gold snarled and the line went silent.

When they finally managed to work up the nerve to enter Gold's office, they were met by the familiar sight of Belle, sitting with her feet tucked under her and a book in her hands, on one of several wing-back chairs. She looked up and smiled at them when they walked in, and Gold – as usual – glowered from behind the stack of papers atop his mahogany desk.

"Right," the Beast purred. "Now that we're all here, I've got some good news: we booked a flight for this Friday—"

"This Friday is a day off!" Jefferson objected, and David did his best to distance himself. Jefferson's oft-denied days off were a sore subject between the co-pilot and Gold.

"My heart is breaking for you," Gold snipped back, not a glimpse of humor or humility in his eyes. "I can't imagine the terrible burden it must put you under, being a pilot who's asked to fly. Anyway, you should like this," Gold pressed on, before Jefferson could counter him. "You're taking an author down to Cape Canaveral for some sort of cruise ship book-signing, and they're paying for you to stay overnight."

"An author, really?" asked Belle, pouncing on the idea. Her eyes lit up with excitement, and David knew that there would be no dissuading Gold now. "Which one?"

"Mallory Ficent, the-"

"The best-selling author of the Princess Dragon books!" Belle enthused. "I used to love those. I didn't know she still lived in Storybrooke."

"Well, apparently she does. Anyway, we will be taking her down for her booze-cruise, staying overnight on the ship – compliments of her publishing house – and then shuttling her back home."

Gold did not look particularly impressed by any of this, but David (who didn't know anything about a Dragon Princess) did know a thing or two about Mallory Ficent; she also had a very popular series of murder-mysteries that Katharine liked, and it was sort of a Storybrooke rite of passage to catch a glimpse of her on her way in and out of the library.

"Excellent," said Jefferson, displeasure evident. He stood up and prepared to walk out. "So you'll send the taxi at quarter-past six, then?"

"No," Gold drawled. "As you may recall, I did mention something to the pair of you about cutting costs until that Bermuda debacle is wiped clean. Shockingly, that's still happening. You will arrive at my house at six thirty, and I'll drive you to the airport."

David and Jefferson made identical groans, but Belle looked entirely too pleased with herself.

…

Gold had no intention of spending the morning with his suit jacket off, elbow-deep in mud and suds, but his dog – Neal's dog, he reminded himself, not that he got to see his son more than twice a month – had taken an unfortunate roll in the flowerbed. Gold glared at the white, curly-haired monster.

"Hello?" he heard a familiar voice call. Glancing at his watch, he stifled a groan. Six twenty eight, and Belle was right on time – which was to say, she'd arrive predictably early.

"I brought coffee!" Belle called again. It sounded like she was standing somewhere in his kitchen, and Gold couldn't say he was sorry that she'd let herself in.

"Down here!" he shouted, and she joined him in the basement – alongside the stationery tub – afew minutes later.

"Here you go," she smiled, setting his dark roast with sugar, no cream, down on the adjacent washing machine. "The boys are outside waiting. They didn't want to come in, so I…" she gestured widely, indicating that she'd been tasked with the brave task of going inside his salmon-pink house.

As if on cue, the dog took advantage of his distraction and shook sudsy water all over the room.

"Snoopadoop!" Gold snarled, but the cock-a-poo was already up on two legs, tongue lolling, tail thumping, with Belle's petting him enthusiastically.

"Hello, Snoopadoop," Belle cooed. "You are a lovely puppy!"

"Neal named him," Gold blushed.

Belle smiled widely at him, and he tried not to stare too openly at the clinging, wet fabric of her blouse. "I'll, um, just tell them that you'll be along shortly, shall I?" she offered. Gold nodded, and she showed herself out.

When they arrived at the air field, after a rousing exchange in which David and Jefferson vied to sit shot-gun in his Cadillac (which Gold resolved by awarding Belle the seat), the morning went from annoying to full-on catastrophe.

"Who the hell are all these bloody people?" Gold grimaced, glaring daggers at the air field gate. Half of Storybrooke must have turned out – the stupid (well, stupider) half – and he spotted Ms. Ficent pushing her way through the mob. She was shouting at him before she even closed the door of his office, and Gold wished he'd thought to take an aspirin in advance.

…

It took her more than twenty minutes to get the irate Mallory Ficent settled into her seat, and the miserable woman snarled at everybody who had the misfortune to draw her gaze. Belle had wanted to ask if she would please sign her copy of _The Princess Dragon and Lady Lancelot_, but it seemed like that would only be inviting more trouble at this point.

"And another thing," the furious woman snarled, "I expect professional discretion at all times! I don't charter private planes just so I can be mobbed by a throng of fans at the gate. And do you know, nobody helped me with my things – nobody helped me onto the plane – it's as though you've never flown a celebrity!"

"We flew the Mayor to Louisville once," Belle supplied, then immediately wished she hadn't.

"Do you even know who I am?" sneered Ms. Ficent, giving her a dismissive once-over with her eyes.

"Yes, of course," she told her. "I'm actually a fan of—"

"Oh, so you've ready my columns in the Times then?" asked the author, her voice suddenly sickeningly-sweet. "My poetry in the New Yorker? Or maybe you're more of a novel fan – how did you like the twist at the end of my last murder mystery? No? Nothing? I thought not. Don't tell me you're a fan if all you read is that _Princess Dragon_ crap," she snapped. "You're a grown woman, for Christ's sake."

Belle nodded mutely and retreated to the galley.

"What a horrible woman," Gold growled when she came in. "I'll bet you anything it was her own publicist who leaked where she'd be."

"Would they really do that?" Belle asked him.

"I would, if she were my client," Mr. Gold shrugged. Well, that was good enough for Belle – he was a brilliant business man. She knew that Jefferson and David got a bit down on him for trying to stress economy, but men like Mr. Gold didn't get to where they were by ignoring "petty" expenses and keeping their books fast-and-sloppy.

But she hadn't told anybody where Ms. Ficent would be, Gold hadn't told anybody (or so he claimed), David hadn't said anything – he never could have kept a straight face – and, though Belle knew it wasn't beyond Jefferson's capacity to have sold the information for money, she couldn't think of a single way he could have capitalized on a mob of fans standing around on public property. If the woman had to be so nasty about it, it would have been nice, at least, to know that they deserved her rage.

"Here," Gold offered. "I'll take out her tea."

"Oh, no, you can let me – I,"

"No, no," Gold insisted. "There are one or two things I'd like to say to her. Besides, it's not as though she can cancel her ticket – Juliette's already in the air."

Belle hadn't even noticed the plane taking off. She was supposed to give the safety announcement, but a small part of her didn't especially care if Ms. Ficent got up to use the toilet before they reached cruising height. It'd serve her right if she slipped and fell in her own… leavings. Then, after she thought something so uncharitable, she immediately felt bad.

"Did you want something, _dearie_?" she heard Ms. Ficent sneering at Gold.

"Only to congratulate you on a job well done," he purred back. Uh-oh. Belle recognized that tone, and it was not a good one.

"What?"

"Well it's not every day a lovely girl like Miss French is excited to meet someone. But you're right – confessing to being a fan in response to a direct question was too much. Well done, telling her off so soundly. I mean, most people would have said thank you and smiled when someone complimented their work, but not you – no, you really let her have it. Brava!"

"How dare you!?" the woman snarled. "One call to my publishers and I'll—"

"You'll what? Refuse to fly with us again? Believe me, the feeling is mutual, dearie."

When he sauntered away, a business connection severed in defense of her, Belle wasn't sure whether to hug him or hit him. That man was utterly frustrating.

Thankfully, David came out to pay his respects, and a visit from the Captain seemed to take some of Ms. Ficent's bite away.

…

They managed to get Ms. Ficent to the docks on time, where half a dozen of the ship's porters helped her move two dress bags, a hand bag, a small suitcase, and a hat box as though it were the greatest honor of their work week. Apparently, Jefferson realized, these one-night theme-cruises were becoming increasingly popular. In a culture where vacation days were scarce, but plenty of people had money, it was a way to make the weekend feel more exotic without experiencing anything too jarring.

A good scheme, all told; he wished he'd thought of it. And that he knew how to drive a boat.

Ship Captains just got all the glory – no one ever romanticized an air Captain going down with his vessel. Oh no, if that happened, you were likely to end up at the center of a narcotics investigation. And all that, despite the old adage: a good landing is any landing you can walk away from; after a great landing, you can re-use the plane.

Jefferson settled into his interior cabin, dugneoned away on the lowest deck surrounded by more crewmembers and broom cupboards than anything, when a knock came to his door.

When he opened it, David was nervously clutching his hands.

"What have you done now?" he sighed, motioning for the blonde man to come in.

"Well, uh, I was chatting with Ms. Ficent, and I … uh, I got a bit carried away, and I… Well, I may have accidentally upgraded us to the Executive Suite."

"And now that Ms. Ficent's gone on to her own Junior Suite, they won't give David a refund," added Belle, stepping into the cramped room (he hadn't noticed her in the hall).

Jefferson shuddered. Of course he'd upgraded them to an unnecessarily expensive, utterly pointless room. And of course Mallory Ficent had egged him on – she and David had been on good terms through the flight, the Captain having allowed her to visit the flight deck despite all ordinances and laws to the contrary. He was star-struck. And stuck with a rather large bill, it seemed.

Why was it that everyone wanted him to solve all their problems today? First Gold, now the dimwitted Boy Scout with an extra gold braid on his sleeve.

"Sounds like you're sunk," Jefferson teased.

"Be serious – what can we do? Can't you think of something?" David begged.

"No. Because what it sounds like, to me, is that you've booked a lovely, Executive Suite and now you're telling me that I am both not invited up and that you expect me to help you find a way to pay for the damn thing. Well, you'll just have to think your own way out of that one, won't you?"

"Jefferson," chided Belle, swatting his shoulder. "Be sensible – we're in real trouble here. Mr. Gold really offended Ms. Ficent earlier, but maybe if we get back in her good graces the ship Steward will let us cancel David's reservation. What do you think?"

"I think," grinned Jefferson, "that there's nothing you could say to get me to go kiss the ass of that horrible woman for a second time today."

"Jeff—"

"But," he continued. "If you're open to a bit of mischief, I just might be able to set something up."

In the end, it took him all of fifteen minutes to drum up a handful of Ms. Ficent's "biggest fans" hovering around the library bar and hide them away (for a nominal fee, of course) in the private drawing room of the ship's Executive Suite. The next steps were trickier, but – with the aid of David's ill-gotten key card – he escorted the wretched woman up to her complimentary upgrade, courtesy of M3P, before they were even out of sight of the coast. Better still, Belle and David remained wholly ignorant of the entire plan – he'd positioned them to "guard" the corridor outside the elevator.

A text from Mr. Gold to their phones, insisting that they join him for dinner at the ship's only 5-star Restaurant, nearly upended things – David nearly did something unforgivable, like coming up to get him - but he managed to ditch Mallory just in time to pull on a tie and arrive at their (mandatory) dinner party.

"So what's the occasion?" Belle asked their boss. She looked lovely in a blue cocktail dress, hair hanging in loose curls. It was vast departure from the skirt-suit and professional up-do she sported while they worked. That was good – it could only help smooth things over with Gold.

"Well," Gold grinned, and Jefferson thought he might even have been sincere, "I happen to know that Ms. Ficent intends to take her dinner here. And I might have arranged to have that reservation posted anonymously, online. So we're here, as it happens, for a bit of dinner theatre. Is she stupid enough to piss off a pack of fanatical bloggers, do you think? It'd be the end of her career."

Belle objected, but Gold seemed not to hear her, and David paled.

"You, uh… you arranged to ruin her career? I thought… That is, we thought, that maybe we'd do well to, you know, apologize to her?" the Captain stammered. "To smooth things over for us while we're here?"

"Nonsense," Gold snorted. "I'll put up with quite a bit of lip from paying customers, but I'm damned if I'm going to be at the beck-and-call of every aspiring millionaire who can afford charter tickets. Besides, she called me _dearie_."

"Yes," observed Jefferson. "That's annoying, isn't it?"

Gold only glared. "And anyway," the older man went on, "what do we need her help for? Everything's paid for, it's been taken care of by the publishing company."

"So you arranged to ruin her career?" Belle demanded.

Gold seemed taken aback that she had ethical problems with his plan, and (more interesting still) her discomfort actually seemed to unsettle him a tad.

"Well, technically Jefferson did," the Scottish bastard back-tracked.

"Jefferson did?" Belle and David rounded on him in a heart-beat.

"Ah.. you caught me?" he tried, throwing his hands in the air.

"But I wouldn't worry about it, Miss French," Gold tried again. "I don't see anyone lurking in the lobby. It seems our plan failed."

"That's not entirely true, either," Jefferson confessed. He was in it for it now; he might as well unveil his masterpiece. "I rounded them up, and – for $500 apiece – I got them all a private audience with Mal. She should have discovered them in her Executive Suite – which the bloggers graciously paid for – about twenty minutes ago."

"Jefferson!" Belle gasped. "What were you thinking? You can't just invade someone's privacy and ruin a woman's career like it's nothing—"

"It's only ruined if she's nasty to them," he defended. It was probably unwise to have a cheeky little grin plastered to his face, but he couldn't help it. "And if they tell anyone, but I think that's rather the point of a blog."

Gold toasted his success and David looked ill; Belle's glare didn't budge, though, and that was almost enough to make him feel bad about. Almost, but not really.

"Is that all you have to say for yourself?" Belle scolded.

"Bread stick?" he offered, popping one into his mouth. Apparently that was not the right thing to say. At all.


	4. Darién

_Bing-bong._

"Good afternoon, this is your First Officer speaking, just to say there is absolutely nothing to worry about."

_Bing-bong._

"Hello, First Officer Madden here again. Still no need to panic. I repeat: no need to panic or look at the wings. Everything's fine. _Fine_."

_Bing-bong._

"Actually, I lied. Everything's not fine. You see, I medicate myself with this leafy stimulant from India, and I've run out. So, if there was a medical professional on the plane with access to this medicine, who knew how to prepare it with milk and sugar, and would be wiling-"

"Shut the hell up, Jefferson!" Gold bellowed through the cabin, his voice echoing off the fuselage. "We get the message. Belle, will you please get the First Officer his bloody tea?"

"I'm already on it!" Belle called back from the galley.

_Bing-bong._

"Thank you!" Jefferson said again, and Gold shouted something incomprehensible back at him.

He'd been waiting on his tea since they crossed the Yucatan, but - as often happened when they flew without passengers - Belle promptly lost track of time and got lost in whatever book she'd managed to smuggle into the galley.

It was true: he could have rung the flight-deck service bell or got up and made it himself. But this way was just so much more interesting! Besides, he didn't want to hand the command to David. Not today, of all days.

Jefferson could feel the thrum of the twin, jet engines coursing through his veins, could imagine the jetties and thermals of air currents rushing through his constantly mussed hair, and remembered what it was like – those early days – in a single, prop-engine plane doing circuits at the Storybrooke air field. He'd fly forever, if he had wings.

"Here we go," Belle smiled, passing him a perfectly-prepared cuppa with just a dollop of milk in it.

"Thanks," he said gratefully. Panama really was quite a long way from Maine.

"Do you need anything, David?" she asked the Captain.

He didn't respond. Good – that meant he was learning.

"Simon Says: do you need anything?" she tried again.

"No thanks, Belle," the other pilot grinned.

"I can't believe you guys are still playing Simon Says," Belle groaned.

"Three days now," Jefferson confided. "I kept tricking our sweet, naive Captain, here, so now he's just sitting like a lump on a log and calling that a winning-streak."

Belle chuckled and accidentally dropped the paperback she was holding.

"Oh, sorry!" the pretty little flight attendant blushed. "Do you think you could…?"

"Sure," David preened, scooping it up off the floor and handing it back.

"Oh, sorry, Skipper!" Jefferson trumpeted.

"What?"

"Well," Belle finished, shooting a conspiratorial grin his way. "I do appreciate the assistance, but Simon didn't Say…"

David's groan of frustration was enough to bring Gold through the galley, poking his head into the cockpit.

"What's all the noise?" the gruff man asked.

"David just lost at Simon Says," Jefferson laughed. "That means it's your turn next, Goldie!"

"I am not playing your bloody stupid game."

"Oh, come on, it'll be fun," Belle tried. "Please? Simon Says you have to play."

"No," Gold insisted. "If anything, I should be Simon. Not that it'd make the pair of you any more likely to follow orders and behave." He glared at them.

"Well, it can be my turn then," Belle announced.

"Excellent," Jefferson agreed. "Simon Says ready the cabin for landing, we're beginning our descent."

"Aye-aye!" Belle teased, mock-saluting, before marching off to her duties.

"Do you know," he observed to no one in particular, unsure if Gold was even listening. "I was doing my flight log yesterday, and this will be my 1000th landing."

"Ha," Gold barked, utterly without joy. "The last time you did your flight log the kids were still wearing those God-awful extra-wide-leg jeans."

"So it's not your 1000th landing?" David asked. The realm of sarcasm and wit tended to wave at the Captain as it passed him by.

"No, it really is," Jefferson insisted. "One thousand and no change landings."

"And how many take-offs?" asked the Captain. Jefferson stifled a grimace.

"Something like twice as many, I'd imagine," Gold replied, a glimmer of amusement finally appearing in his eyes.

"Yeah," Jefferson corroborated. "Because take-offs happen all the time, but landings – now those are a real rarity."

"If you're going to tease me, then I—"

But whatever David meant to do if he was being teased (and when wasn't he?) was lost in the blink of a little, red light.

"What the bloody hell does that mean?" Gold paled, pointing at the offending instrument.

…

"It means we've lost one of the hydro systems," David rattled off, combing his memory for the flight-manual sanctified procedure and response. Contents: fallen to zero. Stand-by Pump: on. Pressure: falling. Falling? Oh no.

"Well, Juliette is rather famous for crying wolf…" Jefferson offered, but Gold had already raced back to the crew seat in the galley and strapped himself in.

"No," David blurted out. "We really have lost number one hydro, look."

"Belle, sit down. There's a problem with the plane," the older man snipped, accent thickening.

"Belle!" he shouted again, as David went through the procedures. "Bloody hell – Simon bloody Says come and sit down, Miss French!" And she must have listened, because just as Jefferson radioed down to the Darién Gap air strip Gold stopped shouting and David took control.

"We'll have the fire truck on standby," replied the Tower, his voice heavily accented. He sounded like something straight out of an English tele-novella.

"How optimistic of you," Jefferson quipped. Then he added, shouting for the benefit of Belle and Mr. Gold in the galley: "Hold on to your hats, folks, this is going to be one for the scrapbook!"

"No," David insisted, looking frantically at the warning light on his control panel. No special procedures, lack of rudder reduces maximum crosswind limit to twenty-five knots. "Jefferson, this is serious. I have control."

"What?" Jefferson deadpanned.

"I have control. Me. Control. I have it."

"David, you assigned me this half of the trip, and I'm well within my experience—"

"I know, but I have control."

"David—"

"Jefferson, I am the Captain and I have control. We can't be too careful."

"Of course, _Captain_," the co-pilot sneered. "You have control."

Three circuits and a very firm landing later, they were on the ground. Thankfully, the fire truck proved unnecessary.

"Well, you certainly waltzed us twice around the room on that travesty. What are you, hourly, Jefferson?" snipped Gold. He looked a bit green at the gills.

"Me, a dancer? Hardly," Jefferson answered. David winced – it was coming. He knew it.

"No? What would you call slamming my airplane onto the ground after twenty minutes of turbulent descent?" Gold hissed.

"I'm not denying it was a grand old waltz," said the First Officer, "but the Captain took control."

"David landed it?" Belle asked. It was clear from her surprised tone that she hadn't expected to hear that. "With the hydro-failure and everything?"

"Well," David blushed, "I am the Captain…"

"Yes," snapped Gold. "But Jefferson is the better pilot. Do I need to explain to you the difference between seniority and skill?"

"Firm landings tend to be safest…" David hedged. He hated this. It wasn't as though he didn't try, he just didn't feel the plane – that flight deck Jedi bit Jefferson did wasn't something you could learn simply by watching.

"If that landing was any safer, we'd be dead," Gold snarled at him.

"I don't think—" said Belle, trying to defend him. But Gold was already beyond frazzled for the day, and her intervention didn't help as much as it usually did.

"We're here for a quick retrieval," Gold went on. Privately, David thought he looked like he might change his mind and decide to vomit at any moment.

"We're picking up the passengers and flying them back to Maine. You," he pointed at Jefferson, "see to it that the hydro-whatsit is fixed. And you," he rounded on David again, "go file the flight plan and handle the re-fueling. I'll take care of the landing fees. I want us off the ground again in two hours, understand?"

"What should I do?" Belle offered, looking worried.

"You," Gold snarled, but when he looked at her his tone immediately softened. "You can enjoy the tropical temperatures outside for a bit, if such a thing is possible, and then get to work welcoming our passengers."

She stared blankly at him.

"Simon says," Gold sighed, and David tried not to stare at the slight softening of the man's expression.

David groaned. He hated filing the flight plan. Every time he briefed the crew, Gold and Jefferson gave him notes and changes to their alternate airports until his head was spinning and he had to scrap the whole thing and file again.

…

"And what the hell is this?" Gold growled at the Air Field Manager, a Señor Perez.

"That's the fire truck fee," the man answered. Gold could have sworn he was being smirked at under the man's heavy moustache.

"What bloody fire truck!?"

"Well, your Captain radioed that you were experiencing a hydro failure, so we mobilized the fire truck."

"We don't pay for that," Gold demanded. "You're contracted to provide it to the air field."

"Maybe in los estados unidos, yes, but here there is a $500 surcharge."

"Well I'm not paying it," Gold seethed.

"Then you cannot take off, Señor Gold," came the manager's sickly-sweet response.

Gold bit back a retort and moved down his invoice. "Well what about this? This says you're charging us for 3 hours on-stand, but we've only been here for two hours and forty-three minutes."

"Alas," Perez cooed. "We charge per hour, not per partial hour. So unless you're planning to take off in the next seventeen minutes…"

"I assure you," glared Gold, "that we are."

"Very well," nodded the man, adjusting the para-military beret on his balding head. "I will send Ramón with the amended bill shortly."

"And you're taking off the fire truck?" the furious Scotsman asked.

"No, I am taking off the third hour. I hear what you say to me about the fire truck, but I will do nothing about it, sí?"

"Sí," Gold spat at the man, taking his leave.

They couldn't bloody well get out of Panama fast enough for his taste. Everything was too bloody hot, too bloody buggy, and this air strip was about thirty yards away from being swallowed into the swamp. No wonder they didn't build roads through this God-forsaken stretch of the country.

He returned to the plane sweaty, miserable, and ready to snap the handle off his cane.

Belle had already seated their seven guests – by the looks of it, they had once been burly, leather-bound types, but two weeks failing to cross the Darién Gap on a motorcycle has a way of taking the ferocity out of a chap. Right now, they all looked like they'd be happy for a cold beer and a good shave.

"Hey, Goldie," Jefferson said from the galley.

"Yes?" Gold hissed.

"Well, I was just wondering if they had chop-shops at every air strip Panama." He gestured out the window to the line of stripped-bare bike frames tucked into the shadow of one of the hangars. How the bloody hell had he missed that at the landing?

"And," Jefferson went on. "If they do, do you suppose they it's just for bikes, or do they also strip air planes?"

"We're taking off as soon as David confirms the flight plan," Gold answered him. Jefferson was clever enough to fill in the blanks. As Gold continued to look out the window, he noted a troop of unmarked Paramillitarios arriving in trucks.

"Shite," he muttered under his breath.

"Belle—" he called, worried out of his mind for a moment, but he heard her laughter. She was already on Juliette. Good. Good thing.

He risked a look at her in the cabin and clutched once more at his cane. She'd seated herself in a vacant seat, right in the middle of this stinking biker-gang, and was throwing back a beer with them, playing some sort of game.

"Belle, could I speak to you in the galley?" he managed between clenched teeth.

When she looked at him and shrugged, he added on a hasty Simon Says.

"What's up, Mr. Gold?" she asked him, smiling as though all was right in the world.

"What the bloody hell are you doing drinking with those men? They're dangerous—"

"Hardly," she laughed, tucking a loose strand of hair back into her chignon.

"They're bikers—"

"Yes," Belle agreed. "And they're really nice. Honestly, they decided to ride the whole Pan-American Highway in honor of their friend who died last year, to raise awareness for UNICEF. They're not exactly hardened criminals."

"You got any more beers back there, sister?" called one of them.

"Or water?" shouted another.

"I'll be out in a minute, Leroy!" Belle shouted back. Her smile never faltered. Gold just wished she'd stop using it on him. Well, no. If Belle stopped smiling at him, he didn't know what he'd do. He just wished it wouldn't reduce him to mono-syllabic idiocy.

The man she'd called Leroy had already gotten out of his seat and walked brazenly into the galley.

"We taking off soon?" the bearded man asked Gold.

"Eminently," Gold responded. "You're a rather spirited group, aren't you?"

"Well can you blame us? We're just pleased as pie to get home. The brother who runs this joint is a real piece of work. When we needed radioed back for a rescue jeep, you should have seen the receipt he sent us! Our bikes didn't even cover half of it. Man, you don't want to cross him – he's a real power-tripper."

Right on schedule, a man with a clip board rapped on Juliette's hull.

"Hello? Yes, I am Ramón. Señor Perez sends the revised bill."

"Good," Gold huffed. He ran critical eyes over the clip-board. Two hours' stand-by fee, not three – at least that was a minor victory.

"What's this?" Jefferson asked, leaning over his shoulder. "Safety infringement fee? What safety infringement?"

"Ah," Ramón nodded sagely. "El Jefe thought you might want to know about that. I am afraid that Señor Gold crossed the apron, and he was not wearing the yellow safety vest."

"But it's a hundred and ten bleeding degrees outside," snarled Gold. "At a deserted air field, in the middle of the bloody tropics."

"Señor Perez says to be always practicing good habits," Ramón said.

"Well you'll never get Goldie to pay that," Jefferson laughed, and Gold snatched the clip board away from the cheeky bastard.

"Of course I'll pay. Run my credit card and let's get this bloody flight under-way. David, radio the Tower."

Five minutes later, the passengers were all buckled into their seats and Belle had completed her safety routine. Gold popped two aspirins and resigned himself to losing his profit margin for the flight. He might even have managed to salvage the day, if the air conditioning hadn't chosen that precise moment to cut off.

…

Sweat was running slick down Belle's back when she finally broke away from the galley to see what David was doing. Gold was already with him, looking pale, over-heated, and angry.

"What happened?" she asked. "It's just… it's _really_ hot in there."

"I, uh, let it slip to the air field manager that we had those bikers on board and he… he sort of insisted that we pay for the rest of their rescue fees before we got clearance."

"That's not even legal," Belle gasped.

"That's what I said," David nodded. "Thing is, though, it is illegal to take off without clearance from air traffic control. And they, um… they siphoned the gas out of the plane and parked us in with the fire truck. So we, uh, can't really leave until we pay them, and we can't turn the air conditioning on until we get more gas."

"I am not giving that mustachioed despot another penny!" Gold snapped. "So David, I suggest you _think_ of something."

Clearly being trapped in a giant, aluminum oven with wings under the mid-day sun was not doing any favors for Mr. Gold's temperament.

"Can't Jefferson help?" Belle offered. Jefferson could always think of something clever in circumstances like these. "Where is he?"

David groaned, "Out with the passengers, I think. He said 'you have control,' in that superior way he does and stormed off."

"He's upset that David took the landing and now he won't help?" Belle surmised, looking to Gold for confirmation. She'd hit the nail on the head.

"Well," Belle gulped – she looked out the men dressed in tactical gear, sporting assault rifles with no obvious form of ID – "I think you'd better seriously consider paying him."

"He wants thousands of dollars!" Gold exclaimed. "This is high-way robbery. It's extortion! I won't pay."

"I rather think it's air-field robbery," Belle observed, for lack of anything better to say. "But," she pressed on, taking Gold's clammy, trembling hand in hers, "I think we're at serious risk that they'll strip the plane if we stay here. So maybe…"

Gold glared and pulled away.

"Right. Right. I'll go get Jefferson to think of something, shall I?"

Neither of them replied, which was just as well, because she doubted anything Gold or David had to say would be very helpful or nice just now.

"Jefferson," Belle whispered, tapping his shoulder with one finger. He – along with most of the passengers – had stripped down to their boxer shorts. "Jefferson!" she tried again when he ignored her.

"What, Belle?" he groaned as the group erupted in boisterous laughter.

"Can I talk to you outside the plane, please?" The passengers oo-ed and ah-ed as though she'd just proposed something sexy, but Belle ignored them and all but dragged Jefferson down to the tarmac.

"I need you to think of something," Belle told him flatly. "Something to get us out of all this."

"David's in control, I'm sure he can handle it."

"Jefferson, this is serious!" she snapped, angrier than she'd ever been. He seemed to be listening better after that. "Those men have assault rifles. We need to get out of here."

"Then go get Goldie to pay the man."

"You know he won't do it. The heat's getting to him – he's not thinking straight."

"I suppose we could…" Jefferson looked around at their surroundings for a minute. "We could always siphon the fire truck's gas into our tank, then get the passengers to lift it out of the way? And I suppose, technically, if we use the Pan-American Highway instead of the runway, we wouldn't be—"

"Jefferson," Belle begged. "This is not the time for a crazy scheme. There are real bullets in those guns!"

"Fine," he groaned. "I suppose there is one thing… but it won't get us out of paying. It'll just… recoup some of our losses, so to speak."

"You want to rob them?"

"Not of their actual property," Jefferson explained. "But there's clearly a smuggling operation working out of this place, so I bet – if I was sneaky – I could find a nice pile of greenbacks to cut our losses. And I wouldn't under-estimate the value of a good call to the Panama-Columbian border authorities."

Belle gave this some serious thought. Jefferson would know all about smuggling, but it was still dangerous – still deadly, if they caught him, and…

"I don't like it," she shook her head. "I'm going to go work on Mr. Gold to give them what they want. It's the only option, really."

She left Jefferson, dressed only in his paisley underwear, standing in the shadow of the plane.

After an hour and several additional fees, Juliette was properly gassed and ready to leave. Mr. Gold was sulking in the galley, the passengers were relaxing in the AC, and Jefferson – thankfully – had resumed some semblance of clothing.

When they got into the air, Belle took out another round of drinks and slumped into her seat next to Gold. He looked like a puppy who'd been kicked.

"Can I speak freely for a minute?" Belle asked him, still uncertain of where he rated her opinion of his personal problems in the spectrum of their working relationship.

He nodded, so she continued.

"I think that it's very, very difficult for you not to be in control. I think you're very accustomed to having all the power in every situation, and that when something happens to change that – like at the air field – to go into a bit of a tail-spin.

"But there's nothing to be ashamed of," she assured him. "We all have to deal with feeling powerless at times, and luckily you had the resources to save us. So thank you for that. I know you didn't like doing it, but I really – I just wanted to say thank you. Because that could have gone very, very poorly in a hurry. I thought you were very brave."

In response, he brought his pocket square out. Something was wrapped in it.

"What's that?" she asked.

"Señor Perez's Rolex, I believe," he chuckled gleefully.

"What! No – you can't seriously re-sell stolen property. I can't believe Jefferson—"

"Well," said Gold, cutting her off. "He did. Damn useful man to have, and it bought him out of a favor he owed me. Anyway, I'm not selling this. I'm keeping it, as a trophy."

"It's not nearly as nice as the watch you're wearing," Belle noted. She didn't like anything about the way today had transpired, but she certainly wasn't going to make them turn around the plane to return the stupid thing.

Besides, it was wrong for Señor Perez to profit off the misfortune of others. Maybe a shade more wrong than it was to simply rob somebody. Maybe.

Gold chuckled, and Belle got up to fix Jefferson a cup of tea.

"Oh, and Belle…" Gold said in a thin voice.

"Yes?"

"You're always free to talk to me. About anything."

She cracked her first real smile of the day.

"But," he continued. "I fear I would be remiss if I didn't point out that, on this particular occasion, Simon didn't Say."

Belle wanted to snort indignantly, but all she managed was a squeak. She had to give it to David – dull or not, he'd survived these monsters for a whole three days.


	5. Exeter

"... and last but not least, the schedule for the next two weeks," Gold rattled off, flipping to another page of the M3P briefing sheet on his desk. "On the 18th, you're flying a CFO to Los Angeles-"

"Is L.A. the new Roswell?" Jefferson teased, interrupting for the third time since they started. Gold stifled a sour look and tried to ignore him.

"CFO, not UFO," David chimed in. Sarcasm was utterly wasted on the Captain, so no change there. Gold never would have considered the delicate instruments on Juliette's flight deck part of the narrow, generic category of things 'so simple even David Nolan could do it,' but he had to admit - begrudgingly, and not out loud - that the man was shaping up to be... adequate. And absolutely necessary to remedy Jefferson's particular brand of stylish insanity.

"Could have fooled me," the First Officer groused, and Belle giggled. Gold could ignore a hell of a lot, but he couldn't ignore Belle's laughter and he couldn't let the crew's shenanigans run away with his meeting.

Rumford cleared his throat, a little unkindly, and plastered his most no-nonsense glare across his face. At least Miss French was smiling.

"As I was saying, dearies, on the 18th you're going to Los Angeles. Then, nothing until the 20th when, I'm afraid to say, you're taking a bachelor party to the Strip."

A uniform, predictable groan filled the office.

"Yes, yes, I know," he sighed. None of them liked bachelor parties, and Jefferson was the only one who could be said to have a reasonably interesting time when they happened to lay-over in Las Vegas. He certainly had no intention of joining them on that particular flight. "But if any of them get out of line, beyond the usual pre-nuptial nonsense, just threaten to lock them in the brig."

"Have we got a brig?" David asked. He looked serious. Gold grimaced.

Belle exchanged a conspiratorial look with Jefferson, and Rumford was immediately jealous. He could be fun. Probably. She could share one of those private, friendly moments with him, if she wanted to.

"Well, we've got the flight deck locker," the First Officer told the Captain, the very picture of sincerity. "But that's hardly big enough to hold two people, so choose wisely and make sure you get the ring-leader. Otherwise, you'll have to cram them all in there like sardines."

"I think that might be against regulations. Do you think-"

"No, Captain Nolan," Rumford snapped. He'd reached the end of his patience with Jefferson's interruptions. "You or's not throw the passengers in the flight locker. It's a bluff. A lie. You put on your Captain's hat-"

Jefferson snorted; the sheer audacity of David's Captain's hat, weighed down in gold braid and pilot wings, amused the First Officer to no end, and Gold - if he was being honest - also found the daft thing ludicrous.

"You put on your Captain's hat," he pressed on. "And then you go into the cabin and set them straight, understand?"

David clearly didn't, but Belle had enough sense not to serve a bachelor party enough alcohol to take them beyond the amusingly belligerent phase anyway.

"Right," said Gold, not waiting around for David to think through all the implications and difficulties of summoning up an authoritative voice. "Well, live and learn Mr. Nolan - and when in doubt, let Jefferson do it. That's more or less it for the month, but I do have a bit of a treat for you on the 30th."

"Oh!" Jefferson snapped to attention.

His posture had a way of going from a bored slump to a sleek gentleman in a heartbeat when something really piqued his interest. Gold didn't mind it, though he sometimes took issue with Jefferson's habit of throwing himself down into a deep slouch at the beginning of his meetings, often onto one of Gold's favorite antiques.

"Is it time for another Derby?" he asked, rubbing his hands with anticipation.

"Seems that way," Gold shrugged. "I shan't be joining you for that trip either, at any rate."

"Oh, really?" He could tell Belle was about to ask him why not, but Gold didn't have the heart to say that he was hoping to spend the time with his boy.

"Indeed not," Rum nodded, offering up what he hoped was a shy smile and not a sneer to the pretty brunette. "I don't especially trust myself to spend eight hours cooped up with Her Majesty without it turning into a shouting match." And Milah always got stir-crazy in the Spring. She might call on him to look after their son - might fancy a shopping trip, or a fancy weekend with her fly-boy. It had happened before, once or twice.

"Sorry, what's going on?" asked David, looking quizzically from person to person. It was annoying, but Gold pounced on the distraction.

"Ah, I forgot - you weren't here with us the last time the Mayor took an interest in a horse," he all but purred. "Well, about once a year, Madame Mayor feels an irrepressible and inescapable urge to go to the races." And to take a roll in the hay with a certain trainer who used to live in Storybrooke. And to gamble exorbitant sums, possibly from public funds. And to drink herself silly on the plane ride home. But Gold kept those tid-bits to himself.

"Well what's so special about that?" David asked the room.

"Oh, nothing at all," Jefferson lied. Whatever his angle, Rum wasn't going to ruin his fun - at least not as it related to David. He had very precise and exacting plans to ruin every ounce Jefferson's fun viz-a-viz his annual theft spree. One thing at a time, though. No sense doing battle with the sea when you could settle for a satisfying salmon fillet.

"Nothing extraordinary," Jefferson prattled on. "It's just nice to see Regina loosen up a bit."

"And reading about the horses is fun," Belle preened. "We went to the Kentucky Derby last year, and it was the Royal Ascot the year before, then the Derby again the year before that..."

"Aye," Gold nodded. "And this time we're taking her on to Exeter for a steeple chase."

"Not the Gold Cup in Cheltenham?" Belle had taken a dilettante's interest in racing after their first trip, though Gold was surprised she knew about the National Hunt. Most people limited their interest to thoroughbreds and derbies.

"Apparently not. Perhaps she couldn't get the time off," Gold quipped. Or, more likely, her stable boy hadn't yet qualified for Cheltenham and Exeter was their best opportunity to liaise.

Belle giggled at his little joke - Storybrooke was a small town that more or less ran itself, and everyone knew that the Mayor set her own hours (liberally) - and Gold smiled despite himself.

...

"Why do we _all_ have to pick her up again?" David asked ponderously. He was the Captain, yet somehow everyone assumed Jefferson should be driving the car and he'd ended up sandwiched between the First Officer and the flight attendant, awkwardly straddling the center humph of Mr. Gold's black Cadillac.

"Well, Madame Mayor expects a certain quality of service," Jefferson explained, giving nothing away and doing nothing to ruin his new game. David wasn't sure what was going on, but he'd been with M3P long enough to know (or at least suspect) when Jefferson was egging him on. Now, if only he could do something about it…

"Really? And Mr. Gold lets you pick her up in his Caddy?"

"I'd like to see him stop me," Jefferson muttered.

Belle giggled, and David took that to mean that Mr. Gold was fully aware of this arrangement – thank you very much – and that he'd begrudgingly, but legally, handed Jefferson the keys. You could tell a lot about what was happening by Belle's giggles, David learned one day. She was always laughing at something or other Gold said, even on days when the man's vitriol would have sent David running. If she wasn't laughing, though, then that meant something serious was going on and it was best if he just kept his head down and focused on flying the plane.

So, despite what Jefferson said, the finer nuances of communication were not lost on him. He was just a little proud of that.

When they arrived outside the large, white manor house the Mayor called home, Belle slipped from the passenger seat and went around the car to stand at the ready, beside the rear, driver-side door. Jefferson walked up the garden path to knock, and David – for lack of anything better to do with himself – climbed out and stood next to Belle.

"Jefferson, darling!" the Mayor grinned. Mary Margaret had once called the woman's smiles poison apples with a coat of red candy, and David could see what she meant as the sleek, raven-haired woman continued to speak. Regina and Kathryn were friends, though, so that had to count for something.

"And our little Belle! Tell me, darling, are you still seeing that strapping gentleman with the big shoulders and thick neck?"

"No," Belle answered primly, opening the door. Jefferson had scooped up the Mayor's bags – a suit case, a purse, and a hat box – and was depositing them in the boot of the car with a rather tense look on his face.

"I expected as much," the Mayor purred. "After all, a bookish little thing like you could hardly hang on to a big, slab of man like that, could she?"

"_I_ broke up with _him_," Belle replied, but David could tell her smile was forced.

"And Jefferson, I see you've made your permanent return to the Captain's seat after being a deck ornament for so long. So I suppose congratulations are in order? Gold's finally convinced you won't turn his hold into a smuggling bay?"

"Ah, well, no. Not really. I'm still in the Co-Pilot's seat, but still very ornamental." Jefferson remained polite, but slammed the trunk with slightly more force than was necessary.

"Yes," David added reflexively. "I'm the Captain." He always had to tell people, despite the gold braid on his hat and the stripes on his sleeve. They always thought Jefferson was in command, for some reason, and once a mechanic even asked Belle's permission before checking with him.

"So you are," Regina grinned. If you listened only to the tone of her voice and paid no attention at all to the words coming out of her mouth, David supposed she'd actually be quite pleasant. "I remember now, Kathryn told me. I suppose you have your work cut out for you with our little friend, Mr. Madden? Mr. Nolan's trying on a new hat, so to speak. Sorry to hear that the animal rescue clinic had to cut-back their staffing."

"It was, uh, actually the Sheriff's Office last time. Graham just didn't have the funds to keep me."

"And I suppose you think that's my fault?" she snapped, masque of benign geniality gone.

"What?" David paled. "No, of course not. Not at all, Regina. Mayor Mills. Ma'am."

Her eyes narrowed, but she accepted this answer and lowered herself gracefully into the car. Belle shut the door behind her, and David said, in a hushed voice, "What was all that?"

"What?" Belle asked.

Jefferson leaned in on his way back to the driver's seat.

"That ridiculous brown-nosing. It's not nice to see the Mayor unwind. Not nice at all. She's horrible. She called Jefferson a petty criminal and Belle a repulsive book worm."

"Well," Belle hedged, keeping her voice low. "It's just the way Regina is. She's harmless, really. I think she's lonely."

"Besides, a powerful woman in a stressful job like that—" Jefferson went on.

"Oh, I know what this is," David groaned. He really should have seen this before – Kathryn could be that way, sometimes. "So the Mayor can do what she likes as long she's got a fancy office. How proud the pair of you must be."

"It's not like that," Jefferson tried, but David wasn't buying it.

"Well, I would appreciate it if we could all maintain professional courtesy and not go all doe-eyed every time a public official calls us darling."

"She didn't call you darling, she called you her _little friend_," Jefferson champed.

"David, I don't think you really understand," Belle started.

Jefferson interrupted with, "He understands perfectly, Belle."

"I know that tone of voice," David groaned. "Belle, what the hell is it that Jefferson's not telling me?"

She looked back and forth between them, biting her lower lip, but finally said, "Sorry, Jefferson. I don't mind a bit of fun, but I won't lie to him. He's talking about the tips."

"Tips, what tips?" David asked.

"The Mayor always bets on the races, and she gives us a massive tip at the end of each flight," Belle confessed. "Personally, I could use the money, so…"

"Oh, and how much does it cost to buy you off, Jefferson?" David grinned. He'd got him – he'd finally got him – and there was no way for Jefferson to feign the moral high ground or turn things around on him. It was his first real triumph over the Co-Pilot, and it might not be very generous, but damn if he wasn't going to enjoy it.

"It's not a question of how much—"

"Come on!" David insisted. He wouldn't let Jefferson worm his way out.

"Well if you must know," the other man whispered, "Then last year she gave us each $500."

"Oh," David blinked. "That is pretty good, isn't it?"

"But that wasn't usual," Belle started.

"No," Jefferson finished. "We only got that much last year because the Queen's horse, Estimate, won the Ascot. That's not likely to happen again, as the filly's been retired."

David sighed. Yeah, of course not; that was just his luck. Well he was damned if he was going to play favorites with the Mayor for less than $500. What would Mary Margaret think? David tried not to worry too much about Mary Margaret and Kathryn, for the most part. He was going to get around to telling his wife – really, he was – but in the meantime, things just sort of… worked, and no one really made too much of a fuss about it.

A sharp rap on the glass of Gold's Cadillac drew their attention. The Mayor was sitting in the back seat, scowling at them, and pointing at her watch.

"Are we going or not?" she mouthed through the glass.

David sighed, and the three of them piled back into the front of the car. It was going to be an awfully long and awkward drive.

…

Belle went through the standard routine of readying the cabin for the Mayor with her usual efficient speed. She wasn't going to get down about Gary today. She was not. He hadn't been much in the way of a wit, for all that he was an exceedingly decent fellow, and if there hadn't been anyone else in almost a year, well… Maybe it was just that the men she found herself interested in these days had more or less relegated her to the category of 'employee.'

She shot a furtive glance to Mr. Gold, who – though he wasn't flying with them – had still shown up at the Storybrooke air field bright and early for his usual Race-Day search and seizure.

David, she noted, was looking on in awe and horror as Mr. Dove sorted through Jefferson's flight bag and pulled out a bottle of apple juice, a vial of clear nail polish, a hip flask, and a small hat box, of all things.

"That'll do, Mr. Dove," Gold said. His rough, Scottish burr drifted to her ears in the galley, a whisper on the air.

She decided to poke her head out of the door, to see how this year's frisking of the First Officer went.

Mr. Dove opened and sniffed the flask, then passed it to Gold. Gold took a sip, and said, "Water. Obvious decoy, I thought so." He kept it any way.

"And the apple juice will have to go," Gold announced, a malicious little grin on his face. He loved this game (systematic theft, he called it, but he wasn't fooling anybody).

"I need that!" Jefferson objected, but Gold stood firm.

"I suppose you can keep the nail varnish and the hat box," Gold conceded. "But you will have to make-do without the apple juice. Mr. Dove, throw it out."

"Wh-what's going on?" David stammered.

"It's a Race-Day tradition," Jefferson scowled.

"It's a damn travesty," Gold snapped, simultaneously.

"Mayor Mills is extremely partial to fine Scotch, as am I," said Gold by way of an explanation. "As is First Officer Madden here. So every year I provide – from my not infinite personal stock – a complimentary bottle for Her Majesty, at a personal cost of $350. First Officer Madden then spends the duration of the flight fidgeting with tubes, reservoirs, and bottles strapped to his legs – anything that can hold liquid, really – and helps himself to the leftovers."

"You drink while operating a plane?" David sounded incredulous.

"Of course not!" Jefferson gasped. "I take it home, to drink it later."

"Well not this time!" challenged Mr. Gold. "This year, we've added some security. Mr. Dove will search you again before you disembark, and you may be pleased to learn, the Talisker Company now sells their 25-year single malt in those horrendous little 'single-serve' miniature sizes. So – Miss French!" he called for Belle.

She walked down the aluminum stair case to join them on the tarmac, alongside the plane. Gold presented her with a red-and-green, glittery gift bag that looked as though a small child had picked it out around the Christmas holidays. Inside, she found 24 miniature bottles of Talisker.

Gold fished one out.

"Miss French will be opening these one at a time, listening for the crack of the seal to prove they haven't been tampered with," Gold demonstrated, twisting off the little bottle's top with a familiar crackle. "And she will be counting them at intervals, to stop you from palming one. Good luck stealing my Scotch this year, dearie, you're going to need it."

He handed the opened bottle back to Belle.

"I can't really serve her this one, now that you've broken the seal," she pointed out.

"Oh. Right. No, of course not," Gold blushed. "Well, breakfast of champions." He took a sip straight from the tiny bottle, enjoying it a little too much for Jefferson's benefit, then took his leave.

Several time zones and many hours of veiled insults from the Mayor later, they landed at a little air strip in Exeter. Belle's nerves were at their absolute end. She'd spent the requisite amount of time safe-guarding the whiskey from Jefferson, but the Mayor required quite a bit more attention and companionship than their usual passengers, and unfortunately – at least for the flight attendant – the Mayor's favorite topic of conversation seemed to be Belle's failed relationships.

She managed to distract her with talk of this year's most promising steeple chase horses, a subject on which Regina could expound for hours without growing bored, but it always came back to criticizing Belle.

The pretty brunette could think of a few choice things to say to the Mayor about the subject of relationships – most of which had to do with the Storybrooke Sheriff and the reason why Regina always returned from these trips with mussed hair and bits of hay on her skirt – but it (literally) didn't pay to provoke her.

If only David could have remembered that.

David had been… well, Belle didn't like to lose faith in anyone, but he'd been an absolute disaster, right from the start. First he refused to let the Mayor visit the flight deck, which ultimately meant Belle had to spend an additional hour keeping her company in the cabin. Then he'd said, to her face, that he wasn't going to grovel, so she might as well sit down and enjoy the trip.

And, of course, these were all things that a pilot was supposed to say. It was against regulations to have a passenger in the cockpit, and it was undignified to put up with Regina's particular brand of wit just for the big pay-off. Belle told herself the woman was lonely and in need of a friend, which she believed, but she also really needed the money. And, as this was her job and she prided herself on being good at it, she didn't feel any more shame than she would have if she still worked at the diner with Ruby. But did David have to say them in that way? To a woman like Mayor Mills? When they were all sequestered together in a rather small air plane?

The end result was that Regina rejected the Captain's escort (a service for which she had paid – essentially ensuring that a member of the flight team would sit with her during, and then retreat to wait with the chauffer later in the evening), and now Belle had to go keep her company.

So, on a very poor night's sleep, she'd gotten dressed in her nicest uniform (which she hoped would pass muster), tucked 3 books into her bag, and set off for a day of Mayor Mills mocking her personal choices.

The Scotch, she informed David a little unkindly, would have to be his responsibility. And, because she wasn't cruel, she gave him a few tips: never leave Jefferson alone with it, count the bottles frequently, and always pay attention to the sound of the seal cracking if you do have to open one. Over all, she figured he had a 50-50 shot of success.

…

Jefferson sat with his feet propped up on the control panel, trying not to look too much like the cat who got the cream. David never stood a chance, the poor bastard, and he'd found a local radio station broadcasting the re-cap of Rocinante's race.

"Why the sudden interest in horses?" David asked, seating himself with the glittery bag of whiskey miniatures in his lap.

"Oh, no reason," Jefferson lied, adjusting the frequency a smidge. Rocinante in the lead, coming up on the first water pump, and he's losing speed in the ditches… but what good form coming over the high fence! His owners must be very pleased….

"But you hate organized sports," David insisted, talking over the broadcast. "You shout about it every time we fly someone to a football game."

"Well, not horse racing," Jefferson lied. He shushed David and went back to listening. Another horse pulled ahead in the straight-away, but Rocinante stayed neck-and-neck through the hedgerows, pulled ahead… and it was Rocinante by a landslide! Jefferson stood up and cheered.

"So I take it you placed a bet then?" David guessed.

"Not me, no. Wouldn't dream of it. The Mayor, however, always bets a ludicrous sum on whatever horse her favorite trainer happens to run."

"Ah, so I suppose you're in for another $500 tip, then?" the Captain surmised.

"No, that was unusual, because as we mentioned – Exhibit won. The last time the Mayor's horse won, she tipped us three grand."

David looked as though he were about to faint.

"She tipped you three _thousand_ dollars?"

"Each, yes," Jefferson grinned. He really did love running circles around David – the man was a race track unto himself.

Before David really got a chance to process this, the satellite phone rang.

"Heya, Goldie," Jefferson chirped. "No need to worry, Rocinante won."

"Yes, Jefferson, I do have access to the Internet," Gold growled. "And may I also take a moment to compliment you on your consummate professionalism while answering the phone?"

"So what did you want?" Jefferson asked him.

"I'd like to speak to Miss French," Gold confessed. "To make sure you haven't stolen the Her Majesty's Talisker, of course," he added on, even though nobody had asked.

"Well, sorry Goldie, but she's not here."

"What?" Gold deadpanned. "Where the bloody hell is she, then?"

"The Captain was good enough to get on Madame Mayor's bad side, so she took Belle as her escort instead. I volunteered, but she cackled – actually cackled – and I thought she might even bruise a rib."

"Put David on the phone," Gold snapped, and Jefferson passed him the receiver.

"Hello?" asked David. His voice, in Jefferson's opinion, sounded suitably hollow.

"Did he steal the whiskey yet?" Gold shouted. Jefferson could hear him over the sound of the radio, which he turned down. It looked like Captain Nolan was about to put on the better show.

"No," David sighed. "And he's not going to. I've got them right here with me."

"You didn't leave him alone with the bottles?"

"Not really, no."

"Not _really_?" Gold hissed. Jefferson did his best not to look terribly pleased by this.

"Look, they're all present and accounted for. He didn't steal a single one, I promise."

Gold roared something that sounded like an insult – Jefferson just about caught the words 'you can't really be this simple' through his thickening accent – and then hung up the phone. The receiver went quiet in David's hand.

"Three _thousand_ dollars?" the Captain repeated again. It took a while for that to sink in.

By the time Belle and the Mayor came back to the plan, they were ready to take-off. They'd cut it a bit close, but if the satisfied smile on Regina's face and the bit of manure still stuck to the tip of her high heel was anything to go by, she'd had a pleasurable day.

Belle gave them both a very suspicious stare-down, but when David presented her with the tacky bag full of miniature whiskey bottles and she opened one up – satisfied by the crackle it made – she eased up. Jefferson couldn't blame her – playing punch-line to the Mayor's repartee all day would have frazzled anyone.

It was just as well that he had the command for their return journey, and that Belle had settled herself violently into the galley with no apparent interest in putting down her book to make tea or coffee, because David had taken the idea of First Class Service and quadrupled it in the space of an hour.

The Mayor was asleep, David's ridiculous hat pulled down over her eyes, before they were even out of sight of land.

It wasn't until they landed in Maine, after Gold and Dove searched him and – their mixed pleasure and chagrin – didn't find anything, after Mr. Gold collected the remaining minatures, and after Dove had to scrape the Mayor out of her seat, that Jefferson realized. It didn't take him long to pieced everything together and figure out who was responsible.

"I can't believe you gave her a whole bottle!" he shouted at the captain, the empty carcass of Johnnie Scottie's Tartan Terror in his hand.

"Well, she uh, said she'd be more inclined to tip if I kept the drinks coming," David admitted. "It wasn't like she minded the cheap stuff – she wanted quantity, not quality."

"So you're not insane, just stupid?" Jefferson growled.

"He's not stupid," Belle defended, though her scowl said otherwise. Leave it to Belle to be nice at a time like this.

"It wasn't stupid," David shot back. "We wanted her to be happy, and she was."

"And did you notice," Jefferson demanded, "That she was entirely too drunk to tip us before Dove carted her home?"

"Well, I… I… maybe she'll send us something tomorrow?"

"That's very unlikely," Belle told him. "I'm sorry, Jefferson, it was my fault. I should have been out there to regulate the flow, but I… I just couldn't stand to look at her stupid face."

"It's not your fault," the First Officer assured her. "Nothing went right from the moment David banished her from the flight deck."

"Did you at least get your Scotch?" Belle asked, genuinely interested.

"You help him steal the whiskey?" David demanded, but they both ignored him.

"No," Jefferson confessed, answering both questions in one.

Belle did not, in fact, help him. But she also didn't go out of her way to hinder him too badly. As she told Mr. Gold every one year, it was really a matter for the two of them to handle, and she had no intention of playing favorites when they acted so immaturely.

"I did," Belle smiled. She did? What?

"Not a lot," Belle went on. "But you remember the bottle I opened to check the seal when we got back? I still have that one, if you want it?"

Jefferson shook his head no thanks, but David wanted to try a sip, and Jefferson stepped out of his way. When he sputtered and spat the nasty stuff out, it only hit empty seats.

"That's horrible!" he coughed.

"It's an acquired taste," Belle smiled, putting the small bottle to her lips. Jefferson lifted his hand to stop her from actually imbibing any of it.

"It is horrible," he told them both, "Because when David went to the restroom, I opened all the bottles and refilled them with cheap whiskey."

"You didn't!" Belle gasped. She looked genuinely shocked, and Jefferson took that as a feather for his cap.

"But how?" David asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "It still crackled when Belle opened it, I heard it."

"Yeah," Jefferson preened. "They do that, if you re-seal them with a little dab of clear nail polish. I emptied them all into another bottle and hid it on the plane to claim later."

"Well then let's have a glass of that," David tried.

"Ah, no, because I hid it in the last place anyone would look for it—"

"The bottle of Johnnie Scottie?" Belle supplied. Clever girl – she got it right on the first try.

"So there's no cheap whiskey, no good whiskey, and no tip?"

"No," Jefferson answered, massaging out the start of a long over-due tension headache. Then, upon realizing how poorly the whole ordeal turned out, he added, "I don't suppose you'd like a shot of nail polish, Captain?"


	6. Friendship

David liked flying circuits. Circuits were easy. And when you had a five year-old boy who wanted nothing more in the world than to grow up and become a pilot, or possibly an airplane, the simple process of circling the air field felt nothing like a chore. That smiling face beaming up at him just about did it, as far as David was concerned.

Maybe Mary Margaret would want one, some day.

Of course, flying his biggest fan over the Maine coast also had its down-sides: for one, Jefferson was inestimably better with children, and the little guy always called the other man Captain; second, whenever they got a chance to take Neal Gold up in the air with them, it meant that Mr. Gold was both their employer and client – a double-dour prospect if ever there was one.

"When life hands you lemons, it's probably a good time to play Travelling Lemon, don't you think?" Jefferson had said when Gold made the announcement at their monthly staff meeting.

David didn't know what that game was, but he was willing to bet from the look Gold gave him that playing it was not something to be proud of.

_Bing-bong._

"Good morning, Papa!" the happy boy announced over the cabin address system, reaching forward and helping himself to the hand-set. "This is your pilot, Captain Wing Commander Sir Neal Gold, welcoming you on our world record flight around…. Around the world! If there's something in the world that you want to see, just ring for Belle and she'll let me know, okay?"

Neal broke into peals of laughter when his father shouted back from the cabin, "Aye, Wing Commander, I think I'd like to see the ground soon."

Poor Gold. He managed to put up a brave front, but flying made the poor man so nervous that he really missed the best parts of his son's excitement.

Well, David didn't mind filling-in. Neither did Jefferson, for the most part, except that having Neal along made Gold twice as likely to shout at them throughout the day.

The co-pilot had received heavy dose of Gold's ill-humor this morning, when he arrived at the air field 45 minutes late. But – and David was learning to read the First Officer better every day – the thing you had to remember about Jefferson (who could be petty and fickle on the best of days) was that he never took out his frustrations with Mr. Gold on the man's son.

As Jefferson had pointed out, Neal didn't mind that they started out almost an hour behind schedule at all, more than happy to run about with Belle talking to the mechanics, fire crew, and ground staff at their little air field. It was hard to see Neal in his element, a natural-born flier if there ever was one, and not smile at the pure, innocent wonder of it.

And now, though Friendship wasn't more than a 30 minute flight from Storybrooke, they were a full two and a half hours behind schedule. They'd spent the last hour and a half flying circuits while the Wing Commander readied the guns, circled the globe, and prepared their expedition to find Amelia Earhart – but his energy would have to wane sooner or later.

"Belle, could I have a cup of tea?" Jefferson shouted toward the galley, out the open flight deck door, as the Wing Commander stretched out his arms and zoomed the full length of Juliette.

"In a minute," she replied. "Just let me finish this page…"

"Well, in that case: Belle, would you like a cup of tea?" Jefferson offered, getting up from the Co-Pilot's seat. David didn't mind, he had control of the plane.

"You're making me tea?" Belle teased, not bothering to look up from her book. As far as David knew, it was a compiled history of Whipstaff Manor, the single point of interest in Friendship and Gold's destination for the day.

"Well, why not?" Jefferson mused, turning on the kettle. "We'll be landing shortly, maybe I'll even see if Goldie fancies a cuppa."

"Mr. Gold, would you like a cup of tea?" Belle called into the cabin, not bothering to set her book aside.

David heard the Scotsman reply something like 'harrugh,' which he took to mean 'yes, please.'

Neal appeared a moment later, dragging his father by the hand, and a predictably nervous Gold limped onto the flight deck. He looked pale, with the same band of sweat that appeared on his brow every time they took Juliette up in the air, but the smile on his face when he looked at his son was sincere.

"Papa says it's time to land now, Mr. David," the Wing Commander informed him. "But Captain Jefferson's making drinks and Papa says I'm not allowed to touch the controls yet, so I guess you can."

"Thanks, Commander," David saluted. He couldn't even be properly annoyed when the boy was all smiles and big brown eyes under his heavily-braided Captain's hat. He must have got his nice disposition from his mother, David decided.

"I'm going to be a pilot like Killian someday," the little boy prattled on. "Then I can land Juliette for real instead of pretend, right Papa?" If there was a word to describe the look of a father's heart breaking behind a carefully constructed mask of smiling support, Gold would have been the mascot.

"Of course, laddie," he whispered while David became intentionally preoccupied with the controls. "When you grow up, you can be anything you want."

…

"_Charlie and the Chocolate Factor_," Jefferson finally announced, pleased with his new game despite David's protests. "It's a rousing political intrigue, full of betrayal, dissent and dessert."

"_The Lord of the… Ring_?" David tried.

"As opposed to what?" the First Officer nearly choked on his tea. Word games helped pass the time in the air or while Belle and the Gold boys visited Whipstaff, sure enough, but word games with David seemed to have the opposite effect, slowing time down to trickle. Had it been three hours yet? Gold had said they'd be back in three hours.

"As opposed to _The Lord of the Rings_. I took the _s_ off!" the Pilot grinned.

Lord save him from this; Jefferson's wit was utterly wasted without Belle and Gold around appreciate it.

"That's not the point of the game," Jefferson said, explaining the rules again. "It's titles that sound more interesting with the last letter off, not 'titles-that-sound-moderately-more-accurate-and-change-nothing'! _Of Mice and Me_, the autobiography of the Pied Piper. _The Sound and the Fur_, a murder-mystery that starts with two dogs fighting in the alley. Come on, David, think for a change."

The Captain's face squinted in concentration, and Jefferson took the opportunity to check that the parcel under his seat hadn't shifted.

"What's that?" David asked.

The First Officer pulled his flight bag out of the floor-hatch and produced a small hatbox.

"Yes, I know – the Race Day hat box," the Captain recalled. "What did you need that for anyway, it wasn't important."

"Not for Race Day," Jefferson promised. "But never confuse useful with important. This little beauty is the wrapping for Gracie's present. Tomorrow's her birthday." He couldn't help but smile when he lifted the lid off the hat box and presented David with the hand-sewn, plush bunny inside. "I wanted to make sure your patent David Nolan landing didn't dent it."

The insult failed to find its mark, as he should have anticipated. David loved kids, adored anything to do with them and wanted a whole passel of his own; it was, in Jefferson's opinion, probably the number one reason he was cheating on his wife with a local school teacher.

"That's really great," David congratulated him. "Does she like rabbits?"

"Loves them. It's all rabbits and tea parties and big, frilly dresses, despite my best efforts to get her interested in aviation. I got this the last time we were in New York, you can't find them like that in Storybrooke."

"She'll love it," David grinned. Then he added, "_Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallow_?"

"Instead of _Hallows_, I suppose?" Jefferson sighed, putting the toy away. He was spared any more of David's lackluster efforts by the satellite phone ringing.

"Hello?" Jefferson asked, unsure who could possibly be calling. "This is Juliette-Lima-Yankee, First Officer Madden speaking."

"Hello, handsome," a slightly familiar voice purred. "Put the Beast on, there's been a change of plans and I need him to drop off Neal early."

"And you didn't think to try his cell phone?" Jefferson scowled. Milah Gold was bad news, from the tips of her designer shoes to the top of her professionally-styled locks, like a bull in a china shop (or at least she had that effect on her ex-husband). It was a bad divorce all around, and the ensuing custody battle for Neal was the stuff of local legend in Storybrooke.

"Do you think he'd answer if I did?" she defended. It was a fair point: Gold never answered his phone during his time with Neal, a practice which Milah constantly tried to turn against him. Not that she'd admit as much, or even try to call him first to confirm that practice was still in effect (it was). She always had an excuse, and Jefferson wondered what today had in store for him.

"At this time of year?" Milah went on. "No, no. It's our 5-year Divorce-a-versary today, didn't he mention it?"

"_No_. And he's not here, they're still at Whipstaff," Jefferson answered. He'd rather play the title game with a hundred Davids than get dragged into another Gold family drama. "What time did you need Neal home? I can send Belle a text and—"

"Oh, is _Belle_ with them? That's nice, isn't it? Just give me Miss French's number, dear; this will go much faster if we cut out at least one of the middle men."

Against his better judgment, Jefferson looked to David for help, but the Captain only gave him a look that said 'better you than me' and noncommittally bobbled his head.

He had to give her the number, Jefferson realized. If he didn't, he'd be right at the epicenter of the next Gold vs. Gold legal brawl. Besides, Belle had more patience for things like this. She'd forgive him - he hoped.

…

"Dr. McFadden built Whipstaff Manor in 1939, when he moved his family to Maine," Belle supplied, more for Gold's benefit than his son's. Lifting Neal up to touch the ornately carved bannister and molding, she continued.

"But now the house is a public land-mark, and some people even say it's…" She bent close to Neal's ear and whispered, in her silliest, spookiest voice: "Haunted."

"Oooo," Rum hooted, adding his own ambiance to the scene. Neal clapped and giggled with delight.

It was never too soon, as Mr. Gold told her, to start introducing the boy to the world outside of Storybrooke. Friendship, Maine, was a modest, if somewhat uninspired place to go, but she supposed it must have been difficult for him to negotiate out-of-town trips with his ex-wife.

Belle wasn't sure how much Victorian-inspired architecture and grand dining rooms mattered to a five-year-old, but she'd certainly enjoyed reading-up on it. They could always buy Neal a cute, stuffed ghost toy in the gift shop to remember the trip by, and it at least had the pretense of being educational.

That Rumford valued his time with his son above any other commodity in the world was a forgone conclusion to those who knew him; that he'd invited Belle to join them left her absolutely gob smacked. Of course there were the superficial reasons: an extra pair of hands for an energetic, imaginative boy never went amiss, and she was technically working as his personal assistant (which, she supposed, was basically the same as being a flight attendant on a jet with only one passenger on it), but it didn't feel like work.

Just as they entered the ball room, where an enormous portrait of a young boy not more than 12 or 13 hung along-side a woman who might well have been the boy's mother, Belle's phone began to vibrate in her purse.

"Just a second," she excused herself, checking the number. When she didn't recognize it, other than the Storybrooke area code, she reluctantly answered. After all, it might be important. "Hello?"

"Hello, Miss French," came the no-nonsense voice of Mr. Gold's estimable ex-wife. "Would you be a good little stewardess and put the Beast on for me? I'm afraid I'll need him to bring Neal home early tonight."

It occurred to Belle to say several things all at once, most of them unfriendly. She would very much have liked to tell the woman, for instance, that the agreed-upon custody arrangement (which already cut Gold out of 90% of his son's life) guaranteed him one weekend over-night visit a month, that they could not come back early, and would she please back off.

The other, more generous part of Belle remembered that at least 50% of the problems in this family were caused by the handsome gentleman wearing an expensive suit to her left, and that (since she wasn't related to them) she should probably just butt out. This always happened, in some form or another, every time Neal came to the air field with his father.

She settled, instead, for somberly passing Gold her phone. When she saw his expression turn, she carefully took Neal by the hand and indicated to Rum that they were going out to the garden to play by the fountain while he sorted it out.

"Neal," Belle asked as the little boy zoomed around the courtyard with his arms outstretched. "Do you like spending time on Juliette?"

She didn't want to over-step her bounds as his short-term baby sitter, but it seemed relevant and heart was still pounding in her chest from the ex-Mrs. Gold's surprise attack.

"Yeah!" Neal enthused, spinning around in a sort of loop-de-loop. "Juliette's the best! Killian says when I'm big he'll teach me how to fly prop'ly 'cause Papa's too scared, but I told him my Papa's brave. It's a lot more fun than staying with the stupid old baby sitter when Mamma and Killian go away."

"Are… are they away a lot?" Belle said. Warning alarms were going off in her head; this was very close to snooping, dangerously close to meddling with another person's child, but the information seemed so suddenly relevant that she couldn't help it.

"Yeah," Neal frowned, dropping his arms and flopping down next to a flower bed. "But that's 'cause Killian can fly Mamma everywhere, and I'm too little so I'd ruin it."

"Oh," Belle replied, resolving not to give in to the temptation for tears. She forced a smile instead. "Well, you're not too little to fly with us on Juliette, so we'll have fun while you're here."

They played air plane and ground control for a while, and Belle gave Neal his afternoon snack of sliced apples and pretzel sticks before Rumford came out to join them.

"Oh no, Papa, we're going to crash!" Neal shouted, running head-long into his father's bad leg. The child was too wrapped-up in making all the sounds of the explosion to notice his father wince.

"What's the matter?" Belle whispered as Neal switched games to parachute-trooper.

"You have to ask?" He winced, and they settled themselves onto a bench. "Milah wants Neal home in half an hour."

"That's ridiculous! We couldn't get back that soon even if we were already at the air field."

"You think she doesn't know that?" Rum grimaced.

After a few moments, Belle decided it was time to be brave. She took his hand. "That's not all that's wrong, is it?" Belle asked.

"No," he confessed, giving her a look that could cut glass. "If you must know, she calls around this time every year, asking me to sell Juliette back to her."

"Back to her?"

"Oh, aye, that story's a piece of work if ever there was one. Don't jump off the fountain, lad!" he called after his son.

Neal nodded in their direction, climbed down from the edge, and went back to jumping off the path, into the grass again.

"Milah bought this plane for Jones with my money when we were still married. I don't know if she wanted me to divorce her by that point, or if she really thought I wouldn't notice a multi-million dollar expenditure. The whole plane's custom-designed, from the pointy-end to the tail, exactly to his specifications. He wants it. There will never be another plane like her."

"And you don't want to sell it to her? Can she even afford it?" Belle was flabbergasted. She'd heard that Gold's divorce had cost him a pretty penny in alimony and child support, never mind that he all but lost custody of his son after his infamous temper got the best of him one day in court. She'd never imagined, though, that the woman had enough money to own a jet.

Then again, her gentleman-friend did have a very nice, prop-jet plane he'd restored and at least two sleek sport planes designed for maneuverability more than carrying passengers. She certainly saw them (the planes and Killian Jones) around the air field often enough, though thankfully M3P didn't have to share a hangar with them.

"The money is not the issue," Gold told her. "I have money to spare, even after the divorce. She took my whole life from me. She would have taken more – do you have any idea how difficult it was to get an injunction to stop her from taking my son and moving away from Storybrooke? She didn't used to be so… so terrible. The divorce was my fault, I can see now how miserable she was. But when I stopped her from leaving town, she got so hateful. I'm not a fool, I know that she never loved me. I'm a difficult man to love. But I look at Neal, and how they are together, and I live every day in the fear that she won't be able to love our son. She didn't even want children; the custody fight was just her way of getting back at me for insisting that we have one."

"So you run a charter air-line because your wife is petty and this is the next-best thing you've got?"

He gave her a watery grin. "Something like that, sweetheart."

"Then I take it you're not selling?"

"For money? No. No, she… well, she offered me a sort of a trade."

Belle felt bile rise in her throat Gold looked wistfully at the little boy playing. "She offered you Neal, didn't she?"

…

Miss French made some good points, Gold had to concede. He'd nearly taken Milah up on her offer on the spot, but nothing was ever that simple with her. Not after the way they'd ended their marriage. Too much bad blood, on both sides. And the thing about bad blood was, it eventually turned rotten.

She had no intention of formalizing their little arrangement before judge, for one thing. Any judge worth his wig would have immediately declared her unfit if she went into chambers proposing to trade weekends with her son for an airplane.

Oh, a contract he drew up and notarized could do in a pinch, sure enough, but then what? What if she took the plane and Neal and went somewhere that Gold couldn't follow? What if she called the police and reported Neal kidnapped when Gold had him? And God forbid that happened while they were flying. It would look bad. Really, _really_ bad.

Those concerns he'd managed to highlight all on his own. It was Belle who'd said: "I'm not sure it's a good idea to let her treat your son like a bargaining chip." And that's what he'd be doing. If he said yes, if he set that precedent, then Neal would always be a form of currency between them, and Rumford couldn't stomach that.

"Portrait of the Artist as a Young Ma," Jefferson chirped as Belle wiped down the galley.

"I'd read that," she smiled, though Gold noted that her smile didn't quite reach her eyes.

In the end, they'd arrived back at the Storybrooke air field two hours after Milah called him, and Killian and she were waiting quite impatiently to pick him up. He hoped he'd made the right choice, but in the sport of men who made wrong choices, Rum rather thought he deserved the gold medal.

"In Search of Lost Tim," he heard Belle's voice say. "That sounds a bit like an episode of Lassie, doesn't it?"

Jefferson and David laughed from the cockpit, and Gold tried to imagine life without them. He'd get a hell of a lot more sleep, for one, and probably have fewer gray hairs on his head. Going gray at the temples had never bothered him, but he wasn't sure his vanity would survive if he started going bald.

"The Tale of Peter Rabbi," said Jefferson, voice drifting thinly through the Cabin.

"I think that's just the New Testament," David joked, and even Gold had to admit it was surprisingly better than his usual comedy.

With no plane and no passengers to deal with, he'd have all the time in the world to focus on his son and his other enterprises. Of course, that would also mean no more Belle, but he could always just buy another plane if he wanted. Neal would like that – another plane. Flying was the one thing the lad went absolutely daft about, and Gold had to exercise some extreme anger-management tactics not to punch-out Killian Jones every time the strutting bastard in his aviator shades and bomber-jacket smirked at him across the tarmac.

Having Juliette felt good on those days. And the letters, in gold print, embossed across his office window made it all the sweeter: My Money, My Plane.

"Hey," Belle said, resting her soft hand on his rougher one. He hadn't even heard her approaching.

"Hey," Gold smiled up.

"Are you okay?"

"No," he admitted, shaking his head. "Not really, no. I'm not even sure I made the right choice, letting him go again. I don't even like flying."

"But I know," Gold continued, looking into the wide, honest eyes above him. "I know that if I want to get my son back, I have to do it legitimately, above the table. So thank you for reminding me of that, Belle. You...I… I'm not…"

He didn't have to finish, because as soft lips pressed gently to chis cheek, he could believe – if only for a minute – that everything was going to be okay.

…

When the plane was finally cleared, David and Gold were the only two left on the plane. He'd been oddly quiet during their return journey, but David put it down to his ex-wife calling.

"Is this one of Neal's toys?" Gold asked, holding up a familiar, stuffed rabbit.

"Oh, no," David answered, reaching out for the bunny. "It's Jefferson's – I think he's gone now. He bought it for Grace's birthday."

"We'd best see she gets it then," nodded Gold, hollowly placing the toy in David's outstretched hands.

"I can take it by his place," David agreed. "It's not too far out of the way for me."

The drive was, in fact, quite a bit out of David's way. But there was a little girl who would be celebrating her birthday, and she needed her bunny. He knocked at Jefferson's door – the man's home was much more grand and isolated than David remembered, though he'd only seen it in the dim Storybrooke fog when they came around in the taxi to pick Jefferson up for a long flight.

He could hear the sound of romping, raucous laughter from inside the house, and the door burst open. There stood Jefferson, pink bow in his hair and epaulets on his shoulders.

"You, uh, forgot this on the plane," David said by way of an explanation. He quickly passed Jefferson the bunny, wrapped in a plastic grocery bag. Not the most cunning of disguises, but it'd preserve the surprise if Jefferson moved quickly.

"Thanks," the other man smiled, genuinely surprised and pleased. "Well, I'll just let you go, shall I?"

David nodded, but something wasn't right. "Jefferson, are you wearing Captain's epaulets on your shirt?"

"No. Am I? I don't think I am."

"No, you are," David confirmed. "And that jacket on the rack has four stripes on the sleeve."

"Well, I must have accidentally put on my old uniform. No harm done. Bye." He tried to close the door.

"No, you definitely weren't wearing a Captain's uniform on the plane," David went on, pieces slowly fitting into place. "I would have noticed that, believe me." He would have, too. No matter how much he missed on the walk-arounds, the flight-plans, and the weather charts, he definitely would have noticed if his First Officer showed up in the wrong uniform.

Jefferson groaned, but then a little girl appeared beside him at the door.

"Who's this, Papa?" Grace asked, thankfully missing the ill-concealed toy in her father's arms.

"This is David, honey," Jefferson grinned, shoving the rabbit behind his back and tossing it behind what David assumed had to be a sofa. "He was just leaving."

"From the airplane?" she asked, evaluating him.

"Yes," Jefferson managed, a hunted look coming into his face. "This is Papa's First Officer, David Nolan. Say hello, princess."

"Is my Papa a good Captain?" Gracie asked, smiling up at him.

David's eyes went wide, but in the end he didn't have the heart to do more than lie. "Miss Madden, your Papa is the best Captain there is."


	7. Glasgow

"Bloody hell, would you listen to this?" Gold asked the room at large as he glared down at the clip board in front of him. "This damn Chamber Orchestra… look at what Her Majesty put down under _Any_ _Special Requirements_: the first, second, and third violinists will not sit together. The cellist and bassist will not sit apart. The harpist will ignore you unless your aura is gold—"

"No problems for you, then," interrupted Jefferson.

Gold glared.

" – and there is nothing you can do to make your aura _more_ gold. The trombonist may never be served alcohol, but the Conductor, Mr. Spencer, must be served only alcohol and needs the lavatory to himself for an hour before we touch-down. The two flutes, French horn, and oboe prefer to sit together, but they will not sit near the pianist, and the pianist refuses to sit near the tuba. The tubist will only sit opposite the French horn, in point of fact. And since her divorce from the Conductor, the bassoonist, Madame Jaqueline Spencer-Clime, will assume you are trying to kill her unless proved otherwise. Do not approach her with blunt instruments, sharp knives or hot liquids. Oh, and her bassoon requires its own adjacent seat. Full cabin, then."

"Terrific," groaned Belle. "How am I supposed to serve her dinner?"

"_Carefully_," Gold instructed.

"I wonder if the bassoon will go with the vegetarian option?" Jefferson quipped, but only David laughed.

Rum just ignored them and fidgeted with the seating chart again. It was a mess. Give him ledgers and spreadsheets any day – he'd make an empire out of a dollar and a handful of peanuts in three weeks – but this mess of _people_ and _personalities_ utterly escaped him. "Can you make head or tails of this mess, Miss French?"

Belle looked at the roster for a few minutes, crossed a few items out, and passed it back to him. Two neat rows ran the page:

Row 1: 1st Violin, Conductor

Row 2: Tuba, French Horn

Row 3: Oboe, 1st Flute

Row 4: 2nd Flute, 2nd Violin

Row 5: Bassoon, Bassoonist

Row 6: Bass, Cello

Row 7: 3rd Violin, Harp

Row 8: Trombone, Pianist

Belle might not have had his experience or his business acumen, but he trusted her implicitly in all matters of logic and reason – especially when it related to dealing with people. When he saw it all written out like that, it made sense: a cabin organized for minimum passenger disruption necessarily separated the drunkards from the teetotalers, the divorcees would not want to sit together, and she even managed to accommodate the Conductor's ludicrous list of requests. So that was that; now if only he could settle his nerves about returning to Glasgow again.

He didn't know how to be a Glaswegian any more, though the hard lessons learned there certainly stuck with him through the years. How could he go from a piss-poor kid two meals and a crowded apartment away from official street-rat status to a rich American and still walk around like he belonged there? They'd see right through his suits and ties in a heartbeat. Glasgow never forgot.

Damn, this was why he usually made the crew fly in and out of Edinburgh. He could always stay in Maine, he supposed, but then he'd miss...

Well, he could hardly abandon Miss French to deal with a hostile passenger list on her own. She'd appreciate the help, and he did have business with his solicitor. It was always good not to let bean-counters get too comfortable at their posts, and nothing quite said 'surprise' like walking into their offices unannounced. If the Storybrooke Chamber Orchestra happened to defray his costs, well, that was only good business sense.

And if the Mayor wanted to green-light their request to go play Baroque music in some drafty, Scottish castle, then more power to them. Dealing with Regina was like drawing blood from a stone, and if James Spencer managed to pry enough money for a chartered flight abroad out of her budget (though Gold rather suspected it was James' father, Albert, who'd done most of the prying), he deserved every penny of it.

The day of the flight, despite his nerves and David's typically rough take-off, things actually seemed to be going alright. He'd strapped in to his seat in the Galley, but with the flight-deck door open and another of Jefferson's mindless games to distract them, he was almost breathing normally.

"Halifax Tower, Juliette-Lima-Yankee here. With you at flight level three-three-zero," David replied to the nearest air-control tower.

"Juliette-Lima-Yankee, radar identified – continue as cleared," the ATC controller said, and they went back to their game.

"Everyone ready?" Belle asked, glancing up from her reading. They were – even Gold had a scrap of paper and a tiny pencil in his hand. It was better than a tumblr of Scotch, in the long run, though he still felt ridiculous playing games with them.

"Get set: the Seven Deadly Sins," she announced. Everyone began scribbling.

"Yes!" David hooted. Jefferson must have given him a look, because he then added, "I know these. I know them!"

"The deadly sin of Pride," Belle teased, glancing up from over her reading material.

"Stop it, Belle," Jefferson whined. "You're making it easier for David."

"The deadly sin of Envy," she commented again

"Belle," the First Officer snapped, "Stop it!"

"That'd be the deadly sin of Anger, then?" Gold piled-on. Jefferson always took these games so seriously, but Rum needed to get out of his own head for a while.

God, his memories of Glasgow… he shuddered at the recollection of mice in the walls and cockroaches beneath his feet. He'd bought that old flop-house of his father's and tore it down after making his first million. Then, because apparently there were laws about leaving vacant lots, he'd redeveloped it. He owned a nice selection of properties in Glasgow now, though most he only managed indirectly.

What if someone from back then recognized him? Would he talk to them, or keep walking?

Rumford passed his completed list to Belle. "I'm done."

"Done!" Jefferson followed, and David finished a few seconds after him.

"Alright, let's see…" Belle started sorting through their lists. "Mr. Gold, you got them all. And Jefferson – oh, Jefferson, it's not called Wrath anymore."

"Of course it is," the other man pleaded.

"No, the Church changed it to Anger," Belle informed them. "Sorry, I can't give you a point for that."

"Technicalities—"

"Technicalities are what people like you and I excel at," Gold interrupted. "No point, you heard the lady."

"And David…" Belle continued. "Oh, David, you put Lust down twice."

"_Naughty-naughty_, Captain Nolan," teased Jefferson. "What did he forget?"

"Pride," Belle told them after checking again.

"How ironic," Gold quipped. Belle giggled, and Rum thought he was beginning to see the merit in all of Jefferson's flight-deck antics. He barely had time for the anxiety when Miss French smiled at him.

"Let's do another," the Captain insisted. "I'm going to win at least one of them."

"Want to bet?" Jefferson challenged.

"_No_," David replied emphatically. "It would be unprofessional, and I'm pretty sure it's illegal. Besides, I always lo— never mind."

"It's only illegal if you bet money," Gold clarified. Jefferson glared at him; making money, after all, was entirely the point. But David was right: he did _always_ lose.

"Come on Belle," David asked, "give us another list."

"Alright," she sighed, turning her page. She paused to think for a moment, then said: "On your mark, get set: the Seven Dwarves."

Jefferson got them all (he had a daughter about the right age to make him an expert on every Disney Princess) which put him well ahead in points, but Gold could still edge-out David for second place.

"Did you get the stupid one?" he asked the Captain as both of them continued to write.

"Yes," David replied, ponderously nibbling the end of his pencil.

"What is it?"

"It's—No!" David caught himself before unwittingly giving it away. "I'm not telling you that."

"Fine," Gold sighed. Neal wasn't very interested in Disney films. "I got all but one, then. Miss French, what's the name of the stupid one?"

"No!" Jefferson insisted, swatting the book from Belle's hands. "You can't tell them what the answer is until David hands his in, he's only got six. David could still beat Gold."

Gold and Belle both glared at him, but the First Officer was utterly unapologetic about his outburst.

"Fine," Rum allowed, handing Belle her book back. "But I'm keeping mine too – I might remember the last one before David remembers his."

The four of them agreed, and Gold rather thought it felt like signing the Articles of War.

…

"Come on, Jefferson. Please?" David begged. He did have his pride – he _did_ – but it didn't extend to doing whatever was necessary to say that he had officially defeated Mr. Gold. Not many people in Storybrooke could claim that!

"No," the First Officer sighed. He sounded tired, and David sincerely hoped he hadn't stayed up all night and gone out-of-hours to operate again (not that the other man would ever admit it).

"Just tell me," David insisted. "I want to get my last Dwarf before Mr. Gold gets his. You don't have to say anything, just show me your list."

"Belle would disqualify me if I did."

"Well… she wouldn't have to find out, would she? Please? I just want to win at something." Want was, perhaps, not the best word for it, but _need_ just about summed it up. He was about to lose both Kathryn and Mary Margaret if he didn't figure something out quick, and David didn't think he could cope with losing their stupid Lists of 7 Things game on top of it.

"Well if that's all you want…" Jefferson's interest immediately piqued, and David stifled a groan. "…I bet you $10 that Reykjavik ATC is a woman."

A woman? David could do this, he just had to think. No betting money; that was the first thing. ATC workers tended to be men. Jefferson must have known something he wasn't supposed to, to be betting so recklessly.

"I'll bet you the brie off the cheese tray that Reykjavik ATC is… _female_," David grinned. Let him chew on that!

"No, I bet she was female," the First Officer corrected, adjusting their cruising height a little.

"Well, it's 50-50, so… unless you're cheating, you won't mind if I change the bet. Right?" He'd worked that all out for himself, but Jefferson was tricky. You could never be too careful.

"Fine," the other pilot shrugged. "The brie to you if ATC is female. Shall we call ahead? Reykjavik Control, Juliette-Lima-Yankee here. Could we have the latest weather off Scotland, please?"

"Juliette-Lima-Yankee, wind shifting, low visibility, scattered thunder clouds ahead," said the heavily accented, very masculine voice on the other end.

"Dammit!" David swore. Jefferson always forgot to take his finger off the radio 'speak' button on the side of the hand-control, as indicated by a little red light on the console, and his outburst broadcast across the North Atlantic.

"Well I'm sorry," the Icelandic man hedged. "They're little clouds, if that helps?"

"Roger, Reykjavik," David groaned, making sure the microphone was off. How had Jefferson known? It was supposed to be a woman. Unless Jefferson knew that he would think he knew, and then knew that he would assume the opposite… But if he knew I'd assume he'd know, then…. Calculating it all out made David's head spin.

"Sorry, Captain," Jefferson smirked. "I guess you lose again."

"Well, I am the Captain, aren't I? So I didn't lose that." It was a hollow victory, given what Gold was paying him, but he'd take it over nothing. Kathryn certainly hadn't been impressed by it, but that was besides the point right now.

"I suppose," Jefferson allowed. His face showed the hint of a frown.

"I _am_," David confirmed. "And that's when I'm at work, not just goofing around at home to impress my daughter." He regretted the words as soon as he said them.

"How _dare_ you bring that up?" Jefferson seethed.

David tried to apologize, but Jefferson was having none of it. "I confided something secret and personal in you, and you're using it a bad come-back?"

"No, I… I…" David stammered, before settling on the first cogent defense his brain constructed. "Well, you didn't really confide in me. I just found out. How is that different from you teasing me about my love-life, or barely passing the CPL? Or the time I landed with the brakes on?"

"Those are all funny," Jefferson spat, glaring at him across the flight deck.

"Well it's funny that you pretend to be a Captain. It's not un-funny just because it happened to you. But… for what it's worth, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said it."

"Good," Jefferson responded icily.

David gulped. It was going to be a long flight, and he was now stuck in a small room with a man who looked like he wanted to punch something resembling the Captain's face.

…

By the time Belle arrived with their tea, coffee, and cheese tray, Jefferson had already bet (and beat) David for the lot of it. Even the extra sugars and creams. They'd bet on everything, from who could hold their breath the longest to how many peanuts they could fit in their mouths.

It was possible, he allowed, that eating an entire plate of cheese, eight crackers, and a heavily-sugared beverages would not be very good for his health, but Jefferson made a point of smacking his lips over every bite, intending to finish every crumb. David should know better than to pick a fight with him by now.

"Can you believe," Belle was saying from the galley, "That that horrible bassoonist wouldn't take her seat because she thought the arm-rests were booby-trapped? She said the Conductor snuck on the plane and raised them half an inch to compromise her performance. She seriously thought that! Mr. Gold had to make her switch seats with her bassoon in the end. _Then _she made me wipe all the salt off her pretzels, in case any of it was broken glass, and—"

"Hey," Gold limped in, interrupting the tirade. "Belle went around with the drink kart twice and no one's been up to use the restroom yet. Did you two master-minds forget to turn off the fasten-seatbelts sign?"

"We thought it might be a good flight to play Passenger Derby," Jefferson grinned. And to bet his serving of cheesecake against David's apple cobbler when Belle served the dinners on the Derby's outcome, but their employer didn't need to know that particular detail.

Gold scowled back at him. "Get on with it, then. They're squirming out there."

"Would you do the honors?" Jefferson asked.

"Bloody hell…." Gold muttered, but he went out to the galley and turned on the intercom.

"Where's the smart money?" Belle asked as Jefferson began the count-down.

"David's got his cobbler riding on the plump violinist in the first row, and I've staked my cheesecake on the French horn player who looks like Norman Bates when he dresses like Norman Bates' mother."

"I'll put an extra serving of cheesecake on the oboe player in row three," Belle grinned. "But if you lose, then you have to get your own coffees and teas for the rest of the flight. And on the flight back, too."

"Row three?" asked Jefferson. "That's brave."

"Perhaps, but the stakes are pretty good, don't you think? And he was very violent in his defense of the over-head storage space," she explained. "Should be interesting."

Jefferson confirmed once more with Gold that they were ready, and the older gentleman began his reluctant commentary. He seemed to have loosened up lately, at least about some things, and Jefferson liked the change.

"Rude Violin is up first," Gold reported. His voice sounded bored, but Jefferson very much suspected that he was having fun. "But it looks like she's wasting time looking for her purse. The daft cow forgot she put it in overhead storage, which will slow her down. French horn is easing into the aisle – but there's a sudden upset as the Conductor stands up in front of her. Oboe is getting moving forward… oh dearie me, the Oboe elbows the Conductor in the gut and takes the prize. Lavatory door is shut… and locked. Oboe wins."

Belle cheered, skipping forward to give Mr. Gold a hug. Jefferson thought he might be ill, and not just from eating all the cheese.

"Well," Belle gloated when she came back to clear their trays, "I'll be starting the dinner service soon. Help yourselves to any beverages or hot drinks, you know where to find them. Who's having what tonight?"

"I'm having the beef with cheesecake, and the Captain is having the chicken with cobbler," Jefferson answered promptly. They always had to eat separate meals. The rules said it was to prevent them from both getting food poisoning mid-air and falling ill, but Jefferson didn't mind. It gave them something else to bet on, at any rate.

Belle heated their food first, and then busied herself getting dinner for the passengers. Gold's catering choices tended to be uninspired, but David's cobbler looked especially vomitus today.

"Belle," Jefferson called out to her. "Would you be able to report back which passengers have the cheesecake and which passengers have the cobbler? I feel another bet coming on."

"I supposed," she frowned.

"David," Jefferson proposed, "I bet you the next bad-weather walk-around that the cobbler's more popular than the cheesecake."

"But… isn't the cheesecake always more popular?" David queried, poking the lump of brown on his tray.

"We can certainly find out!" Jefferson told him. "What do you say?"

"I think you're tricking me. You must know something… like that the crazy bassoon lady banned all cheesecakes within 30 feet of her or something."

"You can bet on the cobbler, if you want," he offered.

"Fine," David agreed. "I bet you the next bad-weather walk-around that the cobbler is more popular than the cheesecake."

"You're on!"

Thirty seconds later, David emitted a low, loud groan. He must have remembered: cheesecake was always more popular.

…

"Beef or Chicken?" Belle offered Madame Spencer-Clime, smile plastered to her face.

"No," the slender brunette sneered, her French accent thick on her voice.

"No?" Belle repeated, at a loss for what she meant. It was a long flight, the woman must be hungry. Belle could barely make it three hours without a snack, and she could put away a cheeseburger with a whole plate of fries in a snap.

"No, I don't like you. Where is the old man?" the bassoonist clarified.

"Old man? Do you mean Mr. Gold? I would hardly call him _old_—"

"Old man!" she shouted. "Old man, I do not like this woman. She is spying for James, I saw them talking."

"You saw me serving him his seventh vodka and tonic," Belle muttered, but it was too late. The moment passed and Rumford arrived.

"You may serve me my food," the paranoid woman smiled, indicating Gold as though this opportunity put a tray of re-heated airplane food in front of here was a very high honor. Belle tried not to scowl at her.

"Whatever you say, Madame Spencer-Clime," Belle sighed, passing Rum a plate of chicken and a plate of beef for the temperamental woman to decide. In the end, it was the chicken, and Gold stayed to complete the service with her.

"Belle?" he asked, and she turned her attention toward him as they slowly ambled back through the cabin. "Is it Goofy?"

"Is what goofy?" This was quite possibly the oddest question he'd ever asked.

Gold blushed. "That thing we were talking about earlier. The list of seven. Is the last one Goofy?"

"No," Belle smiled. "It's not Goofy." She hoped her tone and body language conveyed how genuinely pleased she was that he'd agreed to start playing some of Jefferson's games.

"What is Goofy!?" the bassoonist snapped. Damn. Three rows further, and they'd have been in the galley.

"Nothing to concern yourself with, Madame," Belle called back.

The woman's hand immediately went to her service bell, and she began pressing it incessantly. "Old man! Old man!"

Belle saw the tell-tale vein throbbing at Mr. Gold's temple as he ground his teeth, but he tensed his shoulders and turned around.

"What is it, Madame?"

"What is Goofy?" she demanded, lips in a full pout.

Gold seemed at a loss.

"I think it's a cartoon cow," Belle offered without moving the kart any further away. She wouldn't abandon him now.

"No, it's a code!" the half-frantic woman insisted. "I know you people use codes, you're all conspiring against me! Inspector Sands, fire in the theater; Mr. Gravel, bomb on the train; Dr. Brown, hospital crisis! What is Goofy? Did he poison my chicken? Is that what Goofy means?"

"What? No!" Belle gasped, at almost exactly the same time Gold said, "You've caught me, Madame."

"You _poisoned_ me!?" she shrieked, standing up from her seat.

"No, of course not," Gold clarified. Belle didn't know what to do other than stand back and let him lead. "But airlines are full of Disney codes. So much more convenient than using the intercom in the galley, don't you think? Donald Duck, lethal bird strike; Dumbo, pilot lost his magic feather; Shere Khan, tiger in the flight deck. Does that clear things up, Madame?"

"No," she cried. "What's Goofy?"

"Goofy is a cartoon cow!" he snapped, and the bassoonist began to weep.

Belle pushed past Gold and went to her side immediately.

"Hey, it's alright," Belle soothed, rubbing small circles on the woman's trembling back. "Hush now, it'll be okay. Mr. Gold is going away now."

She glared at him, and he made a hasty retreat.

"Why don't I get you some nice chamomile tea?" Belle offered. "Or there's cheesecake. Do you like cheesecake, Jaqueline?"

"Call me Jack, please," the woman blubbered.

"Alright, Jack. Well, how about I take your plate and bring you back something fresh to eat, okay?"

"James is going to kill me," the woman breathed, looking at Belle through red-rimmed eyes. "He hates me and he's going to kill me." Belle could see the sheer honesty of it in her eyes - Jack really believed that to be the case.

"Look," said Belle, taking Jack by the hand. "The Conductor's passed-out in his seat, and I imagine he'll be quite sick before we land. He's not going to hurt anybody, okay? I've been on hundreds of flights, and I'm very good at my job, so you can trust me when I say that we won't let him hurt you today."

Jack sniffled, but accepted a double-portion of cheesecake.

When they arrived in Glasgow, forty-five minutes late (a tardiness that had cost David no fewer than seven bad-weather walk-arounds, though Jefferson frequently pointed out that Reykjavik ATC had told him about the thunder clouds), Madame Spencer-Clime was back to her usual self. Belle wasn't sure she agreed that it was an improvement on the weepy woman with runny mascara and snot on her face, but at least she wasn't screaming about murder and bombs on trains.

"You, uh… handled that well," Gold managed, shy of approaching her as she scrubbed down the galley. "I.. look, I'm not good with… I didn't mean…"

"I know," Belle smiled. "You shouldn't have shouted at her, but I think she was fine by the time we touched-down. Besides, I know you've been on-edge about going back to Glasgow."

He didn't say anything for a long time, then asked: "So, did anyone win the Dwarf game?"

"You did, actually."

"Really? But I didn't even guess anything. Besides, I think Jefferson had more points than me."

"He did," Belle agreed. "But I caught him describing some rather interesting symptoms to David when I went up to report the status of the dessert orders. Cheesecake won, of course, but I disqualified them both."

They shared a laugh over that, and some of the tension melted from Rum's shoulders.


	8. Hampton Bays

"Morning, Jefferson," David yawned, making his way into Juliette's flight deck. He fought with Mary Margaret last night, and neither of them got much sleep. Instead of the usual aroma of leather and strong coffee, a strong smell of the docks hit his nose. Either he was more tired than he thought, or he could hear something scratching against the walls of the plane. "What's all this?"

"Oh, uh… Good morning, Captain!" Jefferson grinned, slamming the door of the flight deck locker behind him. "I wasn't expecting you here so early."

"Obviously not," David balked. He bent down and opened the red cooler on the floor beside him. A dozen or so lumps moved around in piles of sodden newspapers and ice chips. "Is there a reason you filled the flight deck with lobsters?"

"I did do that, didn't I?" Jefferson hedged.

"Are we having a lobster boil?" David asked, suddenly very interested in the prospects. They were flying a woman out to The Hamptons today, and a lobster boil on the beach (a beach other than the Storybrooke Harbor, anyway) would have been a real treat.

"Sorry to disappoint, but no. These are for a friend of mine: an air-field manager whose wife happens to own a restaurant near the beach."

"Well she doesn't need all of them, does she?" the Captain pouted. Jefferson had at least three coolers full of the little crustaceans, surely he could spare enough for the crew's lunch? He wondered if Belle could cook a lobster in Juliette's galley, or if that was asking too much.

"She does, in fact, need all of them. More to the point, her husband is willing to have them loaded off the plane discreetly."

David paled, and mentally ran through a few estimates. "You must have five dozen lobsters here, though," he concluded. Jefferson didn't deny it; he merely shifted some coolers around and added the last one to the locker. The list of plausible explanations that David could come up with dwindled quickly.

"Don't tell me you're smuggling again?" he groaned.

"_Me_?" the First Officer gasped, taking offense at the merest suggestion of working off the books. "I am hurt and offended, Captain Nolan. Of course I'm not smuggling. My friend at the docks gave me these lobsters as a present, in exchange for a case of middle-shelf whiskey I got when we were in Glasgow last month. And the Scotch, actually, was a gift from a friend of mine in the Glasgow Duty-Free Shop, which I reciprocated with an offering of Napa wines. And the wine came—"

"So you're not making money?" David interrupted. Jefferson shook his head. "But if you're not making money, what's the point?"

"Well…" Jefferson pulled a face and bobbed back and forth, making a show of deciding whether or not he'd confess. He'd do this all day if David let him – the Captain had seen it happen.

"Jefferson!" he insisted.

"Fine. I'm just trading things along, to see what I get. And the point is: I started with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich."

"Oh," said David. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but it wasn't this. In the cabin, he heard the sound of heavy stomping.

"What the hell is all this?" Gold growled, storming onto the flight deck and baring his teeth.

Jefferson pulled another face and David groaned. Gold's usual attitude was one of sarcasm and scorn (at least where his pilots were concerned) with occasional lapses of humanity, but those were his good days. The sight of Mr. Gold in a full-blown 'bad mood' was not one that David envied.

"Never mind," the older man spat. "I don't want to know, just get rid of it." Though his suit was immaculate, his hair looked rather mussed, and David didn't like the idea of an angry, unhinged Rumford Gold stomping around the plane.

"What crawled up your suit and died?" asked Jefferson. He'd clearly lost his last grip on sanity.

"Do you bloody well know who we're supposed to be flying today?" snarled the Scotsman, accent impenetrably thick – but David caught the gist.

"Er… Mrs. Agnes Milliner and company for The Hamptons, wasn't it?" David answered. It was clearly the wrong thing to say.

"That's who made the booking, yes," Gold hissed. "But our passengers are a bit more alarming. My ex-wife is operating under the woeful misapprehension that she and her fly-boy will be joining us for a jolly old spree."

A dark look crossed Gold's face, bringing out every wrinkle of age. Most people had laugh-lines, or crow's feet from smiling, when they were approaching 50. Gold had scowl lines, and deep furrows in his brow from excessive glaring. There was something impish and malicious taking shape in his eyes, and David felt a chill run down his spine.

"Can't we talk rationally about this?" Belle asked, panting heavily as she burst into the flight deck. She looked as though she'd just sprinted the length of the landing strip in her trademark heels, which (David allowed) she might have, if the situation called for it.

"Oh, I don't think that'll be necessary, Miss French," Gold cackled gleefully. "Misrepresentation of interests? Falsifying travel documents? Defrauding an airline? I think I can cook up at least one Felony charge from that. Jefferson, go cancel the flight plan."

"Rumford," Belle pleaded, pointing out the glass windshield of the fuselage. "You need to think about this logically."

David followed her finger and saw Killian and the ex-Mrs. Gold looking smug on the tarmac, with Neal and an middle-aged woman that could only be his nanny standing slightly behind them.

Gold didn't answer; he just stormed off in a huff with that devilish look in his eyes.

"So we're not going to The Hamptons, then?" Jefferson asked, looking smug at Belle's frustrations. Where Gold was concerned, the flight attendant could usually count on wrapping the proverbial golden thread around her little finger, but being ambushed by Milah had broken her hold on him.

"Jefferson, you have to fix this," Belle insisted. "He's mad at me for interrupting their screaming match, but maybe you can convince to do the trip? Tell him he can report Killian to an Air Marshall, or something."

"Why should I?" the First Officer demanded. David tended to agree – he was clearly missing the silver lining that Belle always seemed to see, and when Gold went into a rage it was wise to keep him far abreast.

"Because," Belle huffed, blue eyes wide in her face. "If we don't do this flight, no matter how petty the booking is, this is going to dissolve into a drawn-out legal battle by the end of the week! We took their money, so we have to provide the service. If we cancel based on some personal grudge, even if you could somehow convince Gold to issue a refund, there's a whole world of legal actions they could take. That's obviously what they're angling for; why else would Milah do this? He's playing right into her hand. Jefferson, go talk some sense into him!"

"Sorry, Blue-Belle," the Co-Pilot frowned. "But Gold's on his own with this one."

David looked between Jefferson, Belle, and the little boy jumping up and down on the tarmac.

"Really, Jefferson?" the Captain asked. He didn't get brilliant ideas often, but he'd grasped the end of a perfect one. "I thought you'd be more invested in this trip. How long can you keep 100 pounds of lobster alive in on an airplane, do you think?"

Jefferson's entire demeanor changed. He shoved the last cooler into the closet-sized storage space and sprinted off after Gold, through the plane.

…

Gold's breath came in hard, heavy snorts as he stared at his ex-wife's smug face out his office window. She and Jones were getting onto that plane over his dead body. From the walnut inlays and brass fixtures to the lusciously upholstered seats, every facet of Juliette had been customized to Killian Jones' exact specifications. He wanted it – oh, yes, he wanted the plane – and Milah wanted to give it to him. Like hell he would just let the bastard waltz in and go for a ride.

A tentative knock came from the door, and he tried not to be too disappointed when Jefferson entered instead of Belle.

"What do you want, Jefferson?" Gold snarled. "I told you to cancel the flight plan, don't make me tell you again."

The First Officer picked his way across the floor, through the debris of Gold's office. He'd had a bit of a tantrum when he found out who really made the booking – had reduced his entire wet bar to smithereens and very probably ruined his favorite cane.

Jefferson picked up something in a squashed, white box and examined its contents. Then he said, "I love what you've done with the place."

Gold swore at him and reached for his Scotch – but the bottle and its contents were currently decorating his area rug.

"Look," Jefferson said, clearly intent on talking to him.

Gold scoffed. Belle had already tried that, not that he could hear through the blood pounding in his ears. There was nothing that smarmy, cock-sure Jefferson Madden could say to him. He glared at the pilot, but it wasn't enough to deter him.

"I think you need to look at this rationally," Jefferson told him, scooping up a blob of white goop from the box and popping it in his mouth. "You've already acted like a tremendous ass, but I think you're looking at it all wrong. Milah's clearly doing this to get under your skin, which worked beautifully, but you have an opportunity here to—"

"To be the bigger man?" Gold sneered. He rather suspected that was the line Belle took.

"No," Jefferson continued, nonplussed. He popped another blob from the box in his mouth. "I was going to say that this is a chance to spend some time with your son. One Dad to another, I'd say being civil to your ex-wife for a few hours isn't such a bad price to pay."

"Neal's here?" Gold paled. How the hell had he missed that? Milah and Killian must have walked faster than the aging nanny could manage with a five-year-old in tow, in a hurry to start gloating.

"Yeah," the other man nodded, his deep brown eyes suddenly serious. "Belle's pretty smart, but she thinks this is all about some convoluted legal action. She doesn't consider the point of view of a paranoid bastard, like you and me. I'm pretty sure Milah ambushed you so that Neal would have an interesting story to tell at your next custody hearing, about how Papa shouts at Mamma and smashes things."

Gold buried his face in his hands and slumped into his seat.

"Well, there's not too much damage done so far," he said, licking some more gloop off his fingers. "Sounds like you got into the makings of a fight in the hangar, but Belle managed to drag you away. And you did a good job redecorating the office, but given the alternative was redecorating Jones' face…. Well, it could be worse. We have to do this flight - you know that, right? Technically, I suppose you don't have to go along with us, but I imagine she brought Neal to give you a little incentive to participate."

"What if I lose my temper?" he whispered. The last time he lost his temper around Milah, he completely forgot the setting and put on quite a display for the judge. Ultimately, it cost him custody of his son.

Jefferson shrugged. "Just stay with Belle in the galley if you're getting hot under the collar, I'm sure Neal with be running up and down the aisles and jumping on the seats anyway – you'll see as much of him as you do on any other flight. You've got to do this, Gold. She's lashing out - maybe for fun, but maybe she's worried about something – and the more calm you remain, the more likely it is to blow up in her face."

Gold nodded silently, and Jefferson turned to leave.

Before he went, he slid the crushed box across the desk to Gold, and the smell of vanilla wafted up to his face. Gold examined the mush in front of him (undoubtedly crushed during his rampage) and could just about make out the words 'Happy Birthday Belle' stuck to the lid in blue icing.

…

"Oh dear," murmured Belle, showing Milah to her seat. "This is a little bit awkward isn't it?" She tried a smile, but regretted it a moment later.

"It's not awkward for _me_," the beautiful woman purred, smoothing her skirt and lowering herself gracefully into a seat.

"Oh good," Belle replied, not sure what to say. Then, a little by accident, she added, "Just for everyone else, then."

"Of course not, dear!" Milah insisted, gesturing grandly at the cabin. "It's not awkward for my son, it's not awkward for Kilian, and Nanny certainly doesn't mind, does she? We have nothing to feel awkward about – we made a booking, just like any other customer, and we're very impressed with the service so far. Though, if I may say so, the stewardess' uniform is a bit dull. I envisioned something bold, in jewel tones, to match the furnishings. But the color of washed-out denim quite suits a certain class of person, don't you think?" Milah winked as though she had not just insulted Belle.

Belle tried not to roll her eyes as she headed toward the galley to make the hot drinks. What a way to spend her Birthday! If Rum hadn't once inadvertently caused a man to bite through his own tongue by spilling hot coffee into his lap, she might have considered arranging to spill something on his ex-wife's expertly styled head.

Jefferson, thankfully, had somehow convinced Gold not to play into Milah's hand, and if it meant an afternoon spent being passive-aggressively insulted by another uppity passenger, Belle could handle that.

"So are you the Captain?" she heard Killian asking David on the flight deck. Of course he was – Killian knew David was the Captain – but Belle could hardly grab him by the ear and drag him back to his seat to stop the rogue from lying through his teeth. David was too naive and trusting to be around a man like Killian Jones for long, but David hadn't been around during their last run-in. She consoled herself with the fact that David was a straight-A student at the Live-and-Learn School of Hard Knocks. Whatever disaster this conversation eventually led to, he would be smart enough not to let it happen again.

"You're a bit inexperienced to be a Captain, aren't you?"

"I assure you," David sputtered, "I am fully qualified to—"

"No, no, you misunderstood, mate," Jones backpedaled. "I meant, wow! The Captaincy of a passenger jet is quite a big to-do, isn't it? Did you finish your CPL in the 98th percentile?"

"Oh," she heard David stammer. "Well, uh…"

No, of course not. He'd finished in the bottom two-thirds of his class, barely competent to do anything more than a simple circuit in a single-engine puddle jumper. But the number of pilots in Storybrooke who'd work with a man like Gold was quite short, and most of them were Jones' friends. Belle fought off the urge to rush in and save the Captain from himself. Live-and-Learn. Deep breaths.

"Because I also finished in the 98th percentile, and-"

Bell really couldn't listen to another moment of this torture. In the cabin, she heard Neal begging to be allowed onto the flight deck. His mother refused, citing the oft-ignored air traffic laws that prohibited such visits, and Belle decided to give her a taste of her own medicine.

"Sorry, Mr. Jones," she said, stepping into the flight deck. She stressed the Mister a bit more than necessary, but he had to remember that he wasn't a Captain aboard Juliette. "We're preparing to take off soon, and as I'm sure you're aware CAA regulations prohibit any non-crewmember from being on the flight deck during the flight. Let me show you to your seat."

"I'm sure it's alright, Captain to Captain, right mate?" he appealed to David.

"I'm afraid the Captain insists," Belle said before David could stick his foot in it.

"So, Nanny, what do you think of my husband's executive jet?" Milah asked Neal's minder as she led Killian to his seat.

"I'm not your husband and it's not an executive jet," Gold growled.

"Sit down, Neal!" the Nanny hissed, stopping the child from running down the aisle to his father. "We must sit still and fasten our seat belts, mustn't we?"

"He can—" Gold started, but Milah cut in: "He can't."

Belle worried for a moment that Rum would lose his temper again, but he seemed to digest everything and paused for a long time before speaking again.

"Miss French," said Gold without even a tremble in his voice. "I'll take a triple whiskey, when you have a minute. And please tell the Captain to get us under-way."

…

With Belle sequestered in the cabin dealing with the passengers and Gold clinging ferociously to his last shred of sanity with a little help from Johnnie Walker, Jefferson took it upon himself to get David his coffee.

However, he was not expecting to see Gold elbow-deep in something resembling a bowl of mud when he walked into the galley.

"What's this?" he asked.

"I needed a distraction," Gold confessed. "And I felt guilty about ruining Belle's birthday… I don't know, I guess I thought I could cobble some instant mousse and left over chocolate biscuits together into a sort of Birthday pudding."

Jefferson gave the sludge an investigatory sniff and winced. "Did you mix this mousse with bad milk?" he guessed.

"No," Gold sighed, glaring at the mess. "I could only find coffee creamers and two individual servings of Bailey's Irish Cream."

Jefferson wanted to laugh – really he did – but the resultant chocolate-thing was almost too pitiful to believe. Instead he asked, "How's it going out there?"

"Bloody awful," sighed Gold. "Belle's deflecting the brunt of it, but when Milah started commenting about how unorthodox it is to have the owner join customers in the cabin, on a flight they paid for, I took that as my cue to leave. She tricked Milah into saying something about how cabin crew should be more willing to assist with small children, to save them the cost of a Nanny, and Belle managed to twist it into some sort of agreement that she'd read a book to Neal. You should have seen the look on Milah's face when Belle pulled out a picture book of historic planes from the games cupboard – I thought she'd spit nails. Agnes doesn't seem to mind."

"Is that the Nanny's name?" Jefferson surmised.

"Aye, not that you'll ever hear Milah use it. It's all 'Nanny' this and 'Stewardess' that with her. Sometimes I can't believe I—"

"Hey," said Jefferson. He placed a hand on Gold's shoulder. "Neal's a great kid, okay? Maybe if you tell me when we're flying with him again I can bring Gracie and make it a play-date."

Gold smiled at that, and it was the closest to friendly they'd ever been. He noticed, for the first time, that Gold still wore the Rolex watch Jefferson had… obtained during their scrape in Panama. He'd been so sour about accepting it, frustrated beyond measure that there was no apparent way to get out of the air field without paying the power-made manager his ridiculous fees. And when Jefferson presented the watch, the first words out of his mouth were not complimentary.

But Jefferson just held it up by the band, dangling it in front of his face, and asked: "Do you want it or not?"

After a minute, Gold sneered yes and snatched it like a cat with a string.

That was Gold: a greying old tom cat who'd just as soon claw you as leave you be, whose trust was rarely earned and broken easily, and who – for reasons that Jefferson chose not to linger on – looked like he'd let Belle pet him, if she wanted. That was Jefferson, too. A bit more sleek, perhaps, and infinitely more sociable, but they were cat people to David's unerringly loyal sheep dog. And Belle… well, he wasn't sure where Belle fitted, except that it would all fall apart without her.

In the cabin, they could hear Milah shouting for the Stewardess again, and Belle would be making her way toward the galley for whatever the high-strung woman wanted in a moment.

"You'd better hide that," Jefferson observed.

Gold sighed, opened the microwave, and concealed the misbegotten abomination inside.

"Staying strong, Blue-Belle?" Jefferson asked as Belle shut the galley door a little too tightly behind her.

"It's… tense out there," she confessed. "I may not have thought this all the way through when I told you not to cancel on them. She's really…"

"Horrible?" supplied Jefferson.

"I was going to say high maintenance," said Belle. "How are you holding up, Mr. Gold?"

"I've had my moments," he told her, sharing a look with Jefferson. "But I did want to thank you for not letting me make scene in the hangar earlier. I think it'll be easier all around if we just finish this flight and double-check every booking going forward."

She smiled, grabbed a bottle of white wine from the fridge, and headed back out.

They landed very smoothly, mostly because Jefferson took control. David didn't even mind, he was just grateful that his technique wouldn't be subject to criticism from Killian after the flight. To Jefferson's eyes, Gold's ex-wife looked on the verge of frothing. Whatever reaction she expected from her ex-husband, he was not giving it to her, and Belle's 'kill it with kindness' philosophy seemed to be holding strong.

"Momma, Momma!" Neal shouted, tugging at his mother's dress. He pointed a chubby finger at the galley. "I want Papa!"

"Papa's busy," she told him, but a bit of mothering instinct must have stuck with her, because she let the boy run back and hug his father.

"Hurry up, Neal," the Nanny, Agnes, called. "We'll only be gone six hours, you'll see your father again at supper time for the flight home. Neal?"

Milah huffed, and Jefferson watched in mute horror as the inevitable lines of fate, fortune, and fresh seafood intersected in front of him. A stray lobster chose exactly that moment to scuttle across the floor, Milah shrieked, and Mr. Gold and Neal arrived with Belle's bowl of Birthday sludge – complete with a slurry of Maraschino cherries on top – with the happy child shouting: "Happy Birthday, Miss Belle!"

Milah lunged away from the lobster, Gold moved to shield his son, and the entire bowl of almost-chocolate dumped over top of Milah Gold's immaculate curls.

Jefferson wanted to say something witty, a quip to commemorate the moment, but he – like Neal, pleased as any child could be when his mother looked like a 'poo head' – couldn't do anything more than cackle with glee.


	9. Ithaca

"Bored," David groaned. He sank farther into the small sofa wedged into Gold's office.

Jefferson was late again – no surprise there – and as Gold busied himself with paperwork and Belle read her latest novel, David had only his own thoughts to keep him company. If he waded through the mental quagmire of his upcoming divorce again (and he should divorce Kathryn, shouldn't he?) his head might explode.

The sound of Gold's pen scratching against paper and the soft shuffle of Belle's pages echoed like a final countdown in his head.

David very much suspected that Gold did all his paperwork – the rental properties, pawn shop receipts, legal revisions, and M3P invoices – out of the M3P office now, rather than the one in the Pawn Shop. The bombastic man was at the air field more often than not, even when there was absolutely no use for him. In an entire week of stand-by, he'd been present and accounted for every day but one.

"I have another book in my bag, if you want it," Belle offered, just as David's boredom swelled again. She held up a well-read copy of something that looked vaguely like a paper brick.

"Isn't it kind of long?" David asked her.

She didn't react unfavorably to that assessment, which David knew meant she wasn't really listening. Perfect. So, in addition to spending another afternoon cooped up with Mr. Gold, Belle was so thoroughly absorbed in her own book that she wouldn't be available to run interference. Maybe it was a small blessing that Jefferson hadn't arrived yet, David wasn't sure he could cope with both the First Officer and Gold in a sour mood.

"_Ana Karenina _is a classic. You'll like it," she said, holding the book out in the air and gesturing without looking up from her reading. _James Joyce_, her cover said – David had heard of him, but it was always something that pretentious academic-types read. He accepted _Ana Karenina_ from her with as much enthusiasm as he could, hoping to avoid further scrutiny. He should be so lucky.

"One might dare to hope that you could even learn something," Gold quipped as David stared skeptically at the Russian names on the cover.

Outside, a soft but persistent rain transformed the airfield into a damp, soggy mess, but David spotted a familiar shape moving in the mist. A big grin spread across his face as Jefferson sauntered in.

"Mr. Madden you are an hour and a half late," Gold snapped before the door even shut behind him. He still hadn't looked up from his ledger, but the muscles in his jaw were clenching. David moved smartly out of firing range.

"Yes, and Mr. Bloom is so notoriously punctual, wouldn't you say?" Jefferson shot back. He shook the water from his coat and hung it in the corner before slouching down into one of Gold's over-stuffed chairs.

"It's a job, Jefferson. I pay you, so I expect you to be on time," Gold growled.

"I am chastised and ashamed," sighed the First Officer. "I hate flying stand-by. If I never see the inside of this office again, it'll be too soon."

"Stand-by is the bread and butter of an independent airline," Gold informed him, finally looking up from his paperwork. "We get paid to fly without any actual risk. No chance of you or Captain Nolan crashing my plane into a mountain or hosting cocktail parties on the flight deck."

"That was one time!" Jefferson groaned, slumping even further into his seat.

"All the same, we've been paid a good deal of money to remain available to Mr. Bloom for the duration of his business in Storybrooke, and we are not – technically speaking – available if the First Officer over-sleeps by two hours every day. If he calls, we need to be on-deck to whisk him back to Ithaca, so he can spend some time with his family."

"It's been a whole week, though," David said, trying to help where he could. "I think Mr. Bloom probably forgot about us."

"You're still on-contract until seven o'clock this evening," Gold informed them, not a hint of humor in his voice. "So I suggest you make yourselves comfortable."

David made it through the forward and three pages of the actual story, acutely aware of the sound of Gold's desk clock ticking, before Jefferson jumped to his feet and shouted incomprehensibly. Belle jarred, emitting a little squeak, and Gold's eyes shot up. David had to take a few, deep breaths – his heart was racing.

"Jefferson," Gold warned, an edge of danger to his voice. The First Officer flung himself into the chair again. David could see a live grenade forming between the other men, and decided to do something before either one of them could pull the pin.

"Couldn't we at least wait at Granny's?" tried David. "We wouldn't be more than twenty minutes from the air field, that's still plenty of time to—"

"No," Gold answered emphatically.

At the same time, Jefferson groaned, "Not Granny's again!"

Belle gave Gold a look that David recognized as the international look of all wives, everywhere; whatever sort of understanding she and Gold had (and David really hoped it was more of a father-daughter sort of affair), it sufficed to soften Mr. Gold's glare a fraction of an inch.

"You can wait on the plane, if you want," Gold conceded at last. "But Jefferson – and I mean this – I don't want any funny business. If Mr. Bloom calls, we've got to be ready to leave in ten minutes. And I'll thank you to keep all manner of marine life out of the flight deck this time."

"Your word is law, pack leader!" Jefferson barked, and David stood up to leave with him without worrying too much about where the new epithet came from. He'd learned not to ask too many difficult questions when dealing with the First Officer.

Besides, staying on-board Juliette with Jefferson sounded like a much nicer prospect than Gold's oppressively quiet office – sitting on the flight deck in the hangar couldn't be that functionally different from sitting on the flight deck in the air, and they managed that very well these days.

"It better be," Gold threatened as they beat a hasty retreat across the air strip.

…

Jefferson hated everything about stand-by, from the powerlessness of being trapped on the ground to the eternity of sit-and-wait madness that filled his head. Every last thing about it made his skin crawl.

As though waiting around on a passenger who was never going to show up wasn't bad enough, David now had him playing Flight Manual Trivia. How did he ever come so low? From the moment they stepped on board Juliette, safely away from Gold's office, he'd anticipated a day spent lounging with the ground crew, playing with the fire truck sirens, and perhaps beating David handily in a game of Flight Deck Buckaroo.

He had not, as it happened, expected to spend the whole afternoon actually seated on the flight deck being lectured by a man who'd once made them delay three hours while he played midwife to a litter of kittens.

"At what number of passengers does it become compulsory to carry at least one flight attendant?" asked David, the thick manual propped open on his lap. You couldn't get him to read for more than ten minutes in an actually interesting book about intrigue and adultery, but damn if he didn't have that blasted Flight Manual memorized.

"I don't know… four?" Jefferson guessed. The beginning of a headache took root in his head.

"No, nineteen," David smugly corrected. "So that's another round to me, and you… you still only have three points. Jefferson, how the hell do you complete your recertification courses without knowing these things?"

"Luck," Jefferson tried, rolling his eyes.

"You can't fly an airplane on luck," David gasped.

"Maybe _you_ can't," Jefferson shot back. "It's served me very well over the years. I can't see the point of this game at all, David, let's play something else."

"No."

"_No_, Captain?" Yes, definitely a headache.

"It's my turn to pick. You said I could pick when we finished Flight Deck Buckaroo. At least this game is educational."

"Flight Deck Buckaroo is educational too!" Jefferson defended.

"There's nothing educational about seeing how many instruments you can disable before a warning goes off," David insisted, leafing through more pages.

"Sure there is! You learn which pieces you don't really need – like the altimeters and the ground-proximity sensors. Besides, it's not as though anyone ever asks how many passengers we'd need before Belle is required to fly with us. She goes on every flight, even the cargo-hauls, and Goldie usually pitches in for the busy ones. It's a bit irrelevant to people with a sixteen passenger plane, don't you think?"

"Fine," David sighed. "But we're not playing Flight Deck Buckaroo again. I did revise the Standard Operating and Emergency Procedures last week; we could go over that?"

"Someone save me from this!" Jefferson begged the hangar at large. He'd clearly over-estimated the appeal of being trapped in a small, metal tube with David Nolan all day. At least in Gold's office he had other people to tease.

As if on cue, Captain Jones sauntered past the front end of the plane, aviator shades and bomber-jacket making him look like something out of a Top Gun remake.

"Not you, though," Jefferson groaned. He gave the scruffy pilot the universal sign to keep walking. David even managed a very serviceable scowl and the pair of them glared daggers at the back of his head as he stalked back out of the hangar, into the mist.

"If we're going over the Standard Operating Procedures, shouldn't Belle and Gold be here?" Jefferson sighed when Jones was out of sight.

"Oh, good idea!" grinned David. "I'll call them."

Jefferson wished he had a brick wall in the cockpit. Maybe if he repeatedly slammed his head into it, this week would turn out to be nothing more than another nightmare.

Belle, apparently, didn't mind indulging David's need to compulsively read-back dry, dull regulations (which probably meant she'd finished whatever book she was reading) and Gold seemed willing to put up with it for as long as Belle was playing too. He didn't want to dwell for too long on what _that_ might mean.

To her credit, Belle did suggest they try a game of Charades instead of another procedural review, but Gold cited David's last 20-minute Charades performance of "The Odyssey" without actually knowing who Odysseus was, and immediately vetoed the game.

So here they were, going over emergency evacuation and fire-drill protocol. _Again_.

"Goldie, can't we have a drink to get us through this?" Jefferson sighed, interrupting David's text-book description of how and when to engage the parking brake.

"_No_," the well-dressed man hissed. "If Mr. Bloom calls you need to be fit to fly, no questions asked."

"But it's after lunch already – he's not going to call!"

"Well you still can't drink. You can have coffee, tea, juice, or water. There might even be some extra ginger ale in the galley, but you cannot have any alcohol."

"I'll make you a juice spritzer if you like, Jefferson," Belle offered. "We might even have a few of those little umbrellas left from our last flight to Costa Rica."

"No thanks, Belle, I'll get it myself," he pouted, going away and coming back with a small glass of clear liquid over ice.

"That had better be water, Jefferson," warned Gold.

Jefferson downed it in a single gulp and replied, "You can smell my breath, if it pleases the pack-leader." He tried to stifle a giggle.

Gold scowled. "What's with all this ironic pack-leader nonsense?"

"If you must know, I was watching a documentary the other night about pack hierarchy in the Yellowstone Wolves, and it got me thinking in terms of Alpha and Beta roles." Belle looked impressed with him, which suited Jefferson just fine, and Gold looked annoyed – which was a vast improvement over homicidal – but David mostly just looked confused.

"Well I am the Alpha dog, whether you think it's funny or not, so step in line," snarled Gold.

"So you won't be sniffing my breath, then?" Jefferson grinned. "Would my Alpha perhaps prefer to sniff the other end?" He wiggled his rear in Gold's direction.

"It's better for both of us if we pretend I didn't just hear that," snarled Gold. Well, that put an end to that!

…

"I _am_ the Alpha dog, though," David told them quite seriously. "I'm the Captain, and the Captain is in charge of the vessel, so that makes me the Alpha dog."

"Does it now?" Jefferson asked incredulously. "And I suppose the person on board who's actually most qualified to fly the plane and actually makes the decisions when the Captain is torn between reciting the manual and making a general nuisance of himself is just chopped liver, then?"

They'd been debating this for the last two hours, since Rum gave in and brought out a bottle of whiskey. Belle stuck with cranberry juice in seltzer water, and who knew what Jefferson was drinking, but Gold's accent was pleasantly, drowsily thickened by Scotch and David looked as though his small tumbler had done a number on the filter between his brain and his mouth.

"Technically, the Alpha dog is the one who gets all the choicest bits of meat before the rest of the pack moves in," she pointed out. "So wouldn't that make Mr. Gold the Alpha dog? Since he grabs the Stilton off the cheese tray before you two get any?"

"There's _Stilton_!" Jefferson shouted, slamming his open hand on the controls. "We never get any Stilton!"

"But you don't even like _bleu_ cheese," Belle defended. Was their Stilton arrangement supposed to be a secret? She looked to Gold, and he looked back with a half-smile on his face, totally uninterested in the conflict surrounding them. Belle blushed and looked away again.

"Gold," charged Jefferson, "If you don't keep your damn hands off of my cheese tray, then I—"

"You'll what, First Officer Madden?" Gold snapped. "It's my plane, my airline, and my catering budget. I'll eat the whole bloody thing, if I want!"

The satellite phone began to ring, preventing the challenge for pack-dominance from turning into a literal dog-fight.

"Hello, M3P air," Belle answered, holding up her hand for silence. Fortunately, they all stopped bickering without too much trouble. "Yes… Yep, of course. Fifteen minutes? Sure."

"That wasn't…" David groaned.

"Yes," Belle told them, turning around rather seriously. "Mr. Bloom's ready to go back to Ithaca. What do we do?"

"Take him there, I'd imagine," Jefferson yawned.

"Alright, but how? Mr. Gold and David are both sloshed, and you've had a drink as well—"

"Then why the bloody hell did you tell him we were ready?" complained Gold in a voice that was half angry and half poking-fun. He was drunk. Not sloppily so, but the usual hard line between employer and employee had started to crumble when the Scotch took its toll.

Belle didn't have time to deal with Rum right now, so she turned her attention back to the problem at hand.

"No I haven't," Jefferson told her, holding up his drink for inspection. She sniffed it, dipped the tip of her tongue in, and looked up in shock.

"Water with lemon?" she guessed.

"Yep," he chirped, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"And that shot you did earlier?" Belle pressed him. She wouldn't let them operate an airplane if they'd been drinking. There was a lot you could and could not get away with in the aviation industry, and for the most part Belle didn't try to police them too carefully, but she drew the line at flying while intoxicated.

"More water," Jefferson smiled, patting David on the back as he struggled toward some semblance of sobriety. "I think that one day the Gods looked down on all the lonesome pilots in the world and they invented vodka – colorless, odorless, beautiful vodka. Of course, the problem with not being able to tell water from vodka is that it cuts both ways. I don't really drink very often; I just did that shot of water to annoy Goldie. And anyway, that was hours ago, so it wouldn't matter even if I had."

Belle took a moment to evaluate this. She knew Jefferson to be an irresponsible, lying, thieving scoundrel of the highest order, but he wouldn't intentionally endanger himself or others. What his definition of "not dangerous" could stretch to was, possibly, not quite in line with the usual definitions presented by society, but she'd never known him to drink and fly.

"Alright, let's say you're sober. Mr. Bloom paid for two pilots, though…" Belle hedged, looking once more at David. His cheeks were flushed and his epaulets hung skew.

"Then just bloody tell him we can't do it," sighed Gold, not bothered in the least. "I'll refund him the money. My fault anyway. Shouldn't have let you talk me into…" he gestured widely at the bottle next to him, the ice in his tumbler clinking against the glass.

"_No_," Jefferson insisted. "I did not spend all week cooped up in your office to stay on the ground. I am fit to fly, and I'm certified to operate Juliette all on my own."

"I can fly too," David told her. "I'm as fit to fly as any bird in the… in the sky!"

"You most definitely cannot," Belle told him, straightening his uniform. He seemed to recognize that there would be no arguing the point, and settled back into his seat.

She turned back to Jefferson again. "I suppose if Mr. Bloom is willing to fly with just one pilot, then we could—"

"Oh, we don't have to tell him," grinned the First Officer, snatching David's hat off his head.

"We don't?" Belle asked. Things were about to go from bad to worse, if she knew Jefferson; unfortunately, from what she'd gleaned off of Rumford's books, his particular brand of "bad" was quite often what kept M3P in the black.

"Oh no, Captain French," he grinned, plopping the heavily-braided cap on her head. "I think we can reasonably guarantee that Mr. Bloom sees two pilots on the flight deck, don't you agree?"

…

Gold did his square best not to stare at his flight attendant's sleek, stockinged legs. She'd changed into an outfit from her over-night bag, a simple black skirt ending well above the knee and a white, button-down blouse tucked in high on her waist. All that he could cope with – he'd seen her about town in similar outfits; even the daring, black heels wouldn't have been enough to totally distract him. But with the addition of David's decorations, epaulettes, hat, and cufflinks, he was having a very difficult time remembering why he'd made her usual sky-blue stewardess uniform so modest. As long as she left David's jacket draped over her seat and didn't try to wear it, Mr. Bloom might miss that it was several sizes too large for her petite frame.

David, on the other hand, wore only a clean shirt, black slacks, and Belle's folded cap. Gold slipped a spare silk tie from his flight bag and looped it deftly around the other man's neck, the pale-blue color dyed to match Belle's usual outfit. The Captain wasn't as well turned-out as Gold, with his matching pocket-square and shirt, but he'd do. They should both pass muster, assuming their speech remained clear.

"It's pretty basic, David," said Belle. She'd spent the last twenty minutes instructing him on the dos and don'ts of playing hostess. "Mr. Gold is going to do the safety demonstration, so all you have to do is offer Mr. Bloom a drink, serve him, and then stay in the galley unless he rings for you, okay?"

"So simple even David Nolan could do it," Gold quipped.

"Shush Rum, that's not helping," Belle chastised.

Gold tried very hard not to let his eyes stray as he obeyed her command and pressed together his lips.

"Now, then," Jefferson gloated from somewhere in the galley. "As your Alpha dog, I shall be flying and operating the plane all on my own, saving the company thousands of dollars. What do you think of that, Goldie?"

"Not now, Jefferson!" Belle yelled back before Gold could concoct a retort that was suitably scathing. "Mr. Bloom will be here in two minutes – I think his car just pulled in. Does everyone know what they're doing?"

They didn't, but it was too late to turn back. Gold schooled his features and tried to look serious. He'd do fine – there wasn't enough whiskey in the world to dull his fear of flying, and the anxiety was already flooding his brain with enough adrenaline to compensate for the worst of his drinking. David was another story.

What the bloody hell had he been thinking?

Well, he knew that too. It weighed heavily on him as he completed the safety demonstration and David interrupted three times to see if Mr. Bloom wanted something to drink. He'd been thinking that… maybe… perhaps, it might not be so bad to have a glass of something strong with the woman whose legs would be fueling his fantasies for the next several weeks. He'd hoped that maybe she'd lean over, at the end of the night, and kiss his cheek again if they tore down some of the professional boundaries. Maybe she'd kiss more than his cheek, if it came to that.

It was, he knew, the most singularly stupid plan every conceived by a man of his considerable age and experience. This was the sort of thing boys concocted in their late teens and early twenties, to ensnare girls without exposing their insecurities. He was better than this – he'd have to be, Belle deserved the best.

He never expected to feel like a woman deserved any sort of kindness or tenderness from him again after Milah left, but there she was – all 5 feet and two inches of her. And she was wearing a bloody Captain's uniform. Gold licked his over-dry lips.

"Mr. Gold," said David, drawing him from his reverie. "I think you can sit down now."

Gold did sit down, and David managed to forget Mr. Bloom's drink order twice before Rum stomped out to deal with the situation himself.

"Mr. Bloom, I would like to apologize for the Cap—for Mr. Nolan's incompetence, and to ensure you that M3P takes your custom seriously. What can I get you to drink?"

"Water," the tired-looking man said. "Sparkling mineral water, with no ice."

"Right away," Gold nodded, wobbling a little on his feet. David giggled at him from the galley.

"Are you drunk?" Mr. Bloom snapped at them, rising from his seat. "One idiot cabin boy I can tolerate, but there's something going on here – I can tell. I demand to see the Captain."

"I'm afraid that's quite impossible," Gold growled, trying to look as though his head wasn't spinning. "When the air craft is in flight, no non-crewmember is permitted on the flight deck—"

Mr. Bloom stepped deftly around him, dodged David, and made for the cockpit with Rum and the Captain hot behind him.

"What the hell is going on?" he shouted. Belle leaped to her feet.

"Sir, this is a breech in air safety protocol, and I must insist that you return to your seat."

"_You're_ the captain?" he asked incredulously, looking back and forth from Belle to Jefferson.

Gold thought he'd have to order them back to Storybrooke and prepare for a long, bitter lawsuit with Bloom and the TSA. It was on the tip of his tongue to apologize and take at least partial responsibility, when Belle saved the day.

"Yes, Sir, do you have a problem with that? I am the Alpha dog on this air craft, and you are currently in breach of Federal and International air safety laws." Her eyes shot to David and Gold.

"Mr. Nolan, Mr. Gold, it appears you two have been on a little adventure into the drink trolley. I want both of you in the galley for the duration of the flight. You will drink two bottles of water each and sober up, at which point we will discuss disciplinary proceedings." She rounded on Bloom again.

"Mr. Bloom, my First Officer Mr. Madden currently has control of the vessel. We will be landing in Ithaca within the hour, however I will order this flight to ground at the nearest air strip and have you arrested by an Air Marshall in exactly thirty seconds if you are not back in your seat, with your seatbelt on. Is that clear, Sir?"

Bloom gulped, apologized, and backed out slowly. "Right. Sorry. No offense meant, ma'am."

"Thank you," Belle replied primly. "Please ring your bell if you need any assistance and the First Officer or myself will be out to help you. I apologize for the state of our crew, and I can ensure you that their behavior is entirely unacceptable for continued employment with this airline. And now, if you will excuse me, I have a job to do."

She shut the flight deck door in his face, and two things happened: Mr. Bloom returned to his seat for an entirely uneventful flight and Rumford Gold came to grips with the fact that he was utterly, besottedly in love with his cabin attendant.


	10. Junín de los Andes

"Alright, David, we're two miles out. Descend to 500 feet and stand by for visual on target," Jefferson instructed. It had all sounded so neat and easy on paper, worked out with all the basic algebra and geometry David swore to his high school teachers that he would never need in his later life. But now, approaching the height of the tree-tops….

"Are you sure about this?" the Captain balked. They could always run the numbers again and make a second pass.

"Very sure," Jefferson said. "Everything will be fine."

"The thing is – and I do trust you, Jefferson – but the thing is: I'm not _entirely sure_ it's going to be okay." He leveled Juliette out over the Storybrooke skyline as the other pilot took control.

It would be fine. Fine-ish. Better than fine if Belle stayed right where she was, reading in the galley, and didn't look out the windows; best if Mr. Gold didn't happen to hear the low-flying plane and pop his head out the door of his Pawn Shop; but still, fine. _Fine_.

David's palms broke out into a clammy sweat.

"Well, I'm 100% sure it's going to be alright, and since you're coming down 50% on either side, the law of averages leaves me with a comfortable majority," Jefferson chuckled, lining up with the Main Street.

"Jefferson!" David gasped. He could pick out individuals by their shape and clothing in the streets – the Ground Proximity Sensors were going to start going off with their "Pull up! Pull up!" warning if they descended any further.

But Jefferson was past the point of recall. "Target in sight. Level 500 feet: bank left and open air brakes… now!"

David rapidly engaged and disengaged the air brakes, eyes squinted shut against the view of the park beneath them.

"Oops," he heard Jefferson whisper, and David forced his eyes open again.

"What? What? What happened? I didn't see – what happened?"

"I may have slightly over-estimated the effects of our ambient temperature on the pay-load viscosity," Jefferson conceded, pulling them back up to a cruising altitude again.

"What does that mean?" David pleaded. He didn't have the sense of calm or certainty of wit necessary to sort out Jefferson's convoluted word games.

"Now David," Jefferson cautioned. "The thing you've got to remember is that the idea was perfectly sound. You did the math yourself."

"Jefferson, please!"

"And it did occur to both of us that filling the air brake with chocolate kisses and opening it just above the park would cause a delightful rain of Mary Margaret's favorite candies, not to mention a lovely surprise for Gracie as the children enjoyed their City Hall outing…"

David groaned, wiped the sweat from his brow, and wrung his fingers nervously. "Get to the point."

"You were very sure that the kisses would rain gently down on the excited children in the park. And they would have, if it wasn't unseasonably warm out. You see, he metal in the compartment must have melted them a little, so your calculations were – in fact wrong."

"Yes, but the cold air should have hardened everything again," David countered. He didn't know what he was hearing. He didn't know if he _wanted_ to know, at this rate. "Just tell me what happened already."

"Well…" Jefferson hedged. "Basically, it all sort of melted and reformed into a… a chocolate and tin foil brick."

"Which we then dropped on Mary Margaret's field trip," David managed to choke out. Mary Margaret was going to kill him. That pale, petite, kind school teacher was going to drag him over a bed of hot coals, drop him on a pile of broken glass, and murder him with her bare hands. "We could have hit a child, Jefferson! Please – please tell me we didn't hit a child."

"No, of course not," the First Officer comforted him. "The children all ran for cover long before it landed."

"So we didn't hit anything?" David's day was starting to brighten up.

Jefferson pulled a face. "Well…"

Gold yelled at them for an hour straight, and Belle did nothing to curb his rampage. He called them every name in the book – some so warped by his thick accent that they sounded entirely made up – and accused them of at least twenty crimes, from reckless endangerment to hijacking.

It was only when he started to repeat himself that Jefferson spoke up. David watched in mute horror as the First Officer said, "We don't expect you to pay for the damages, you know."

"Of course you bloody well don't expect me to pay for it!" Gold bellowed. "I paid you to fly my plane to Augusta for a simple cargo pick-up, not to launch a missile at the Mayor's apple tree! Why the devil would I pay for it!?"

"Well, you keep pointing out that it was _your_ plane," Jefferson replied easily. David braced for impact.

"We did technically go to Augusta first," the Captain tried. This was, it turned out, precisely the wrong thing to say.

Belle did try to stymie the onslaught of profanities this time, but Gold had passed beyond the point of hearing.

"Do you two geniuses have any idea how much a horticulturist and a branch graft for a rare tree costs?" Gold asked for the second or third time since their inglorious landing.

"About a thousand dollars, wasn't it?" Jefferson supplied. David blanched.

"One thousand dollars _each_," Gold snarled, bearing down on them. "And _if_ the damn thing recovers, and _if_ I can convince the Mayor not to sue me, and _if_ I don't decide to fire you – you two morons will be the only pilots in the bloody sky with the words 'Property of R. Gold' tattooed across your arses – because, dearies, from this day forward you will belong to me!"

"You're not really going to fire them, are you?" asked Belle, eyes rimmed in red. David hadn't seen her so upset since Mr. Reeve died on their flight to Bermuda.

David dared to breathe again when some of the fury melted from Gold's compact frame. He thought he heard the Scotsman mutter something that sounded like 'oh, sweetheart,' but that couldn't have been right. A silent glare that carried the promise of many uncomfortable flights to come was their cue to leave, so David and Jefferson beat a hasty retreat.

Now he only had Mary Margaret and Kathryn to worry about, but somehow that wasn't comforting in the least.

…

They were going on two straight weeks of Mr. Gold snarling miserably at the Pilots for every little infraction (imagined or otherwise), and Belle didn't know how much more she could take.

When she saw him at his most vulnerable – around his son or clinging stricken to one of Juliette's seats – she could almost imagine that pensive, gentle man cupping her cheek and sharing her drowsy smiles in the morning. Even the business persona he presented, the face he showed the public, held a place in her heart. As a business man and employer, Gold tended to be firm but fair, and there was no denying that he was absolutely brilliant. Belle liked that he knew when to hold and when to strike – she liked his refined intelligence and raw instincts.

But seeing him for the first time as a vitriolic, abusive task-master bogged-down in a pointless grudge match… well, she'd begun to appreciate Milah's situation during their marriage. Of course, that had nothing to do with how Belle suspected the other woman treated their son after the divorce, but it certainly put "The Beast" into perspective.

Of course it was incredibly stupid of David and Jefferson to try that trick with the chocolates, but by all accounts the Mayor had grown rather fond of the scruffy-looking horticulturist and his young son – even going so far as to eschew the police station and Sheriff in favor of spending more time with them, in the park. That was the gossip at Granny's anyway (not that Belle gave it much credence), and however much of it was or was not true, she did know one thing for certain: the Mayor elected _not_ to sue the airline.

Belle finished her work and good, long think on board Juliette, and then headed back to the M3P office. She could hear raised voices before she even got close enough to peek through the window – Mr. Gold was shouting again.

"We aren't flying there on the backs of bloody unicorns, David! What the hell am I supposed to do with this budget? Twenty six thousand dollars for a flight to Argentina? You're daft! You two idiots are going to go over it again!"

"Mr. Gold, the budget really is pretty tight—" David tried.

"Am I hearing this? Are you trying to tell me how to run my own bloody airline, dearie? Do the budget again!"

Belle slipped into the office mid-tirade, but Gold didn't even pause for breath.

"And you!" Gold rounded on Jefferson. "You help him figure something out, or so help me I'll take it out of your salary!"

"Rum, that is enough." Three sets of bewildered eyes turned on her.

"Did you have something to add, Miss French?" Gold asked, his tone changed to a lethal purr in the space of a heartbeat.

"Yes. Stop bullying the Pilots. They paid for the damages and Regina's not going to sue us. You're behaving abominably. No one deserves to be spoken to this way." Belle walked right up to Gold, tilted her head up ever-so-slightly to meet his honey-brown eyes, and planted her feet. Enough was enough.

"I don't owe you a bloody thing, dearie," Gold snapped back at her. "They endangered my operation. Anyone who comes between me and my business dealings deserves to be skinned alive."

"No," Bell told him in a flat voice that brokered no arguments. "They don't. Now, the Pilots have apologized and the damages are paid for. They won't do anything as stupid as that ever again, will they?" she asked the dumbfounded men behind her.

They both shook their heads that repeats of the Chocolate Bomb would not be an ongoing problem.

"Good. Then I suggest we all take a deep breath and—"

"Who do you bloody think you are?" Gold hissed. "This is my airline, you are my employee. You don't get to speak to me like that!"

Belle didn't think she could have recoiled faster if she'd been slapped. His _employee_? They both knew there was more between them than that. And whatever it was – this ill-defined attraction – it didn't change the fact that they were friends. The four of them had passed the professional distance of "employer" and "co-worker" a long time ago, but she and Gold were… were…

Well, they were nothing, technically speaking. Two weeks ago, she might have lamented that fact, but today it felt like a blessing.

"Alright," Belle challenged, squaring her shoulders and straightening her back. She would not shed a tear over this stupid man. She would not. "You want to take it out of our wages? Fine. I'll offer you a deal, you'll like that."

"Belle… I didn't mean…" She could see that he'd entered something of a panic, but where Belle might have forgiven him, _Miss French_ had no such obligation toward mercy.

"No, if this is all about money, then let's speak a language you can understand. If we can shave $6,000 off that trip budget, then you consider the apple-tree debt paid and back off."

"And if you don't succeed?" Gold asked. His voice sounded hollow and uneasy.

"Then we'll pay you $2,000 each – or an equivalent number of unpaid hours, to be determined at a later date. Either way, the debt is paid and you go back to treating your _employees_ respectfully."

Gold was leaning away from her, palms pressed to the edge of his desk. His eyes darted from her face to the door, but she gave him no opportunity to run for it. "I don't want your money… not your fault…"

"No, it's fine. I was on the plane when it happened, so I'm technically culpable. And if money is the only thing you care about, then that's what we'll do. What do you say, gentlemen?" she asked the mute on-lookers in the room.

"I'm not sure we can—" David started, but Jefferson cut him off.

"Deal! How about it, Gold?" Jefferson trumpeted.

Belle was not entirely unsatisfied when Rum forced out a rather quiet, ashamed acceptance of the terms. Content that there would be no more shouting-matches that afternoon, she spun on her heel and walked out without a second look.

…

In the end, finding the extra $6,000 in David's budget proved fairly simple. It was a straight-forward delivery job, so they didn't have any passengers to please: a telecomm millionaire decided to re-retire from Maine to a little town outside Buenos Aires, and he'd hired them to fly down all of his fishing gear – flies, rods, tackle, a wardrobe full of hip-waders and mosquito nets, and several crates of plasticized trophy fish. Junín was a long way from Storybrooke, but they could make it in one go if they were careful about fuel levels and trading-off duties to stay within operating hours.

Jefferson went over the numbers again. They couldn't increase their maximum take-off weight, but they could make room for more fuel and better efficiency if they off-loaded everything unnecessary. After raiding the galley and stashing all of the drinks, board games, and major appliances in the hangar, Jefferson reckoned he'd saved them about $500. That figure jumped up to $2,500 when he factored in that they wouldn't have to land and refuel.

For her part, Belle cancelled the catering and prepared a few simple meals that were safe to store at room temperature. She eliminated a good $300 from the over-head costs, and – as she was too good-natured to present Mr. Gold with her grocery receipts, even when they were at odds – they suffered no losses on that front.

David objected on principle to flying the length of the Americas without coffee, but a few bottles of Starbucks' pre-packaged beverages made an acceptable compromise. Unfortunately, the coffee situation was David's sole contribution to their cause.

Well, that was alright. Jefferson was sure he could find the remaining $2700 somewhere. They could turn off the air conditioning, off-load half of the liquid oxygen, keep the air recirculation fans on, only use one engine to taxi… Hell, if they cancelled the hotel and slept on the plane, he might be able to cut the budget by as much as $8,000. That gave them room for one David-sized emergency, which Jefferson always planned for, and – of course – even if his methods weren't entirely legal, not even the All-American Boy Scout David Nolan would dare to complain on _this_ flight.

Juliette got off the ground, into the air, and over the Caribbean before Jefferson's carefully calibrated plan started to unravel.

"What's that light mean?" David asked, pointing at the offending instrument on their control panel.

"Anti-icing's gone out on the left wing, Captain," Jefferson rattled off.

"Well we've got to land and get it fixed then," David instructed.

"Do we? Today, of all days? Gold doesn't know what's going on; he's drinking his sorrows away in the cabin, and Belle's too busy ignoring him in the galley to object. Does it seem likely to you that we'll encounter ice in the tropics?"

David groaned. "We won't be in the tropics forever, Jefferson, and besides – you know we're more likely to encounter ice at this altitude on a hot day if there are clouds."

"I have a solution for that, Captain," Jefferson tried. Anything to keep Juliette in the skies. "Let's not fly through any clouds."

"But there _are_ clouds!"

"Just some little fluffies! We can weave in and out. We only need to keep the left wing out of them anyway."

David seemed to give this some serious consideration before he replied. "No, we need to land and get it fixed. I'm sorry, I don't want to pay Mr. Gold $2,000 any more than you do, but we have to follow air-safety protocol."

Jefferson tried to stifle a groan as David radioed their problem to ATC and got instructions on where he could bring the plane down. He thumped the console, to make sure it wasn't a false alarm, but the light refused to go out.

"Are you sure about this, Captain?" he asked. One last-ditch effort couldn't hurt. "Personally, I love Jamaica. Beautiful beaches, excellent food, magnificent culture… but they're not famed for being punctual. Everything runs on Island Time."

"What are you saying, Jefferson?" sighed David as he lined up their descent.

Jefferson ran some sums through his head. A little air field utilized mostly by island-hoppers would help, as would the general simplicity of the repair (it wasn't a bird in the engine, at least), but that didn't mean they were totally in the clear. "I'm saying that unless we get Juliette back in the air today, we're going to lose this deal. We can just about stretch to cover the landing and repair, but if we're here over-night… no dice."

Belle chose that moment to enter the flight deck. "What's going on?" she asked. "I thought I felt the plane descending, and this is definitely not Argentina."

"Not unless the Captain discovered a Warp Drive button," Jefferson teased. "We're landing in Jamaica for a repair, then onward and upward to Junín de los Andes. Or should that be inward and downward? It is in another hemisphere, after all."

Belle blanched. "Oh no," she paled. "I'm really sorry, you two. It looks like my big mouth is going to end up costing us. I just couldn't stand it anymore. I'm sorry."

"No need to apologize," David comforted her. "It'll be finished, either way, by the time we get back to Maine, and Jefferson reckons we can still squeeze in under-budget if we get back in the air before sundown tonight."

Belle offered them a tentative smile and Jefferson sat up straight. He wasn't going to let her feel guilty over telling-off Goldie when he'd been acting like a massive bastard for two straight weeks. Whatever it took, they were going to win this thing.

…

Gold felt like he might be ill in the aisle when the plane began to descend without warning. They couldn't crash. They must not… he hadn't even managed to tell Belle…

The feel of the landing gear rolling against the tarmac was the single most comforting sensation of his entire day. This whole trip, from the budget and flight plan to the damn, stupid deal that he made, had his nerves on edge. An unscheduled landing was just a twist of the knife.

And then, as though they'd never fought at all, Belle came over the cabin address feature to inform him in a professional, indifferent tone that the plane had stopped for routine maintenance and would be taking off just as soon as the engineer signed-off on the tech log.

Gold wanted to ask his crew what was wrong – it was his plane, after all; he had the right to know. But nothing short of a crowbar and a cattle-prod would have convinced him to breach the boundary between the cabin and the galley, that invisible wall entirely of his own making, which clearly delineated the new "us versus him" mentality.

He never should have come on this flight. He never would have, except he would have lost even more face (if such a thing were possible) by backing down and admitting that he trusted the three of them to report their expenses honestly.

The crew retreated to the hangar while a thickly-accented engineer with dark skin and tightly braided hair climbed up the wings. It felt even more awkward to sit, roasting, in the un-air conditioned plane while men worked in the Caribbean heat a few feet away from him, so he really had no choice but to join the others in the shade.

"See, Jefferson, I told you that there wouldn't be a problem," David was saying. "You were so sure we'd have delays, but look – the engineers here are very good, and they're just as quick as any other air strip we could have gone to."

His First Officer did not reply.

"It was a rather unfair stereotype," Belle gently admonished. "But I think we're all happy Jefferson was wrong about it."

"Yes, alright," sighed the dark-haired man, fanning himself with David's hat. "There's nothing inherently worse about a Jamaican air field than any other country. But it is stupidly hot here."

When they noticed him staring, Jefferson glared at him. David and Belle busied themselves picking at bits of invisible fluff on their uniforms.

"Go pay the air field manager, the engineers should be just about done," Jefferson called out to him, still glaring. "We're tired of waiting around to see who won. If it comes in $2,018 or less it'll be us, and $2,019 or more means it's you. Bring the receipt back with you."

Rum gulped, nodded, and limped toward the offices.

The air field manager was a lovely woman, about fifty years old, with dark skin and white, curly hair cropped close to her scalp.

Two thousand thirty four dollars and twenty seven cents, all for an emergency landing and a few mechanical prods at the anti-icing equipment. The guilt punched him in the gut.

"Um, Ma'am," he said, drawing her attention up from a crossword. "I was wondering if, perhaps, you might be able to knock $20 or so off this bill?"

"This isn't a market stall," she scolded through a thick, island accent. "We aren't here to haggle with you. This is a fair price, you don't think I cheated you?"

"No," Gold backpedaled. "No, of course not. It's just… well, it's complicated. Is there anything I could do around the air field to get this bill down to… I don't know, $2,015?"

She looked skeptical.

"Please," Gold added. "It's important."

"I'll tell you what," said the woman after what felt like an eternity. "My car is parked in the shade over there. If you wash it in the next thirty minutes, I'll charge you twenty dollars less for time on-stand. But you folk need to be out of here in half an hour or else I have to charge you full price, see?"

Gold looked down at his $3,000 suit, glanced back to the dusty Volkswagen, swallowed his pride, and asked the manager if she had a bucket for him.

Jacket off, sleeves rolled up, and soap suds on his pant leg, Rumford didn't know if he was damper from the wash-tub or the sweat rolling down his back. Still, the car was almost clean and he still had a few minutes to spare.

"Mr. Gold?" a familiar voice called. "Mr. Gold, we're cleared for take-off, and—what are you doing?" Belle asked, looking at him with wide, blue eyes full of curiosity.

"Er… washing this car," he replied carefully, schooling his poker face.

Belle did not look like she was going to take that explanation at face value, but she refrained from asking any more questions. "Well, we're ready to take off and everyone wants to know the damages. Did you pay the air field manager yet?"

"Not quite yet," Rum answered. There was so much he needed to say, but the words just would not form on his lips. "I'm on my way there now."

"Okay…" Belle said, backing away slowly. "Well don't take too much longer. We need to be off the ground in ten minutes." She turned around and left.

Dignity stinging (but guilt handily dealt with), Gold paid their bill and presented his crew with a receipt for $2,014.27.

"We win!" Jefferson hooted as they waited for the tower to give them take-off clearance.

"Only if nothing else goes wrong," Gold glared, but all of the venom had long since evaporated from his system. He felt Belle's eyes on him, could almost picture the thoughtful look as she pieced it all together, and did his level-best not to meet her eyes.

After he settled into his seat and forced himself to remain calm as the metal death-trap climbed back into the air, the slight stink of sweat and stickiness of dust started to bother him. His leg was throbbing. Why couldn't Milah have used his money to buy her boyfriend a plane with a master bedroom and a full-size bath? All he wanted was a wash and a long, dreamless sleep.

Something moved in the periphery, and Gold looked up to see Belle standing over him. She passed him a pile of damp paper towels and a feminine-looking stick of deodorant.

"That was very big of you, Rum," she said.

"I've no idea what you're talking about, Miss French," he lied smoothly, accepting the cool cloth and flowery hygiene product without comment. A moment later, she produced a warm cup of tea as well.

"Don't tell Jefferson," she half-smiled. "I bought a carafe of hot water from their cafeteria when he wasn't looking. There's just no way to do a 12-hour flight without a hot cup of tea, don't you think?"

"It'll be our secret," he shyly smiled back. "And Belle, I… I'm…"

The words _sorry_ and _in love with you_ stuck in his throat like an over-large bit of something gooey. She smiled sadly, set the tea on his tray, and walked back into the galley.


	11. Kathmandu

Jefferson didn't even try to stifle his yawn, and soon David joined him in the drowsy, sighing ritual of tired people across the globe.

"Why are we here so early?" David managed between boughts of sleepiness. The sun was still low on the horizon, warming the treetops with a soft melt of pink, yellow, and gold. Higher in the sky, a sliver of the moon and the last few stars dotted a slowly brightening, purple sky, and a heavy mist still clung to the valleys.

He'd only had two cups of tea this morning and felt wholly justified in ignoring the Captain's attempts at small-talk. They both knew the answer anyway: another rousing week of flying stand-by. The only difference was, of course, that this time Gold was his own customer. And his own worst-enemy, not that Jefferson would ever say it to his face.

As Gold liked to point out, it was his plane. The only cost of reserving it for the week was his crew's salary and forfeit revenue from any other customers he turned away – and Jefferson supposed that the old Scott could afford it. After all, the man did own half the town. More than half, likely.

Still, Jefferson could have done without the 6 AM call-time. They never actually flew anywhere on these self-induced stand-by-flights anyway, but even he didn't dislike Gold enough to point that out. It was a game they all played, ignoring the futility of his actions and pretending that long experience with Milah hadn't taught them anything.

Every time Gold threatened to sue for custody over a broken visitation schedule, his ex-wife placated him with promises of unscheduled play-dates and hinted that she might bring Neal around the air field to visit for a while. It was a dance as old as time: he agreed to a make-up day as soon as Milah guilt-tripped him over the emotional damage excessive court dates could do to a child, they scheduled a tentative but large swath of Gold's time when she might "swing by" (usually at the air field, which wasn't at all out of her way since she liked to be wherever Jones was), and he waited all week on the slim-to-nothing chance that she'd actually show up with the boy. Then, after the clock ran out, they'd end up right where they started: threatening to get the lawyers involved.

At least Gold wasn't so picky about how they passed the time at the air field when he was the customer. Whenever a "real" customer booked them, the bastard took cruel pleasure in keeping his Pilots under lock-and-key. (Which, Jefferson had to admit, was not a terrible strategy. They all recalled the near-disaster of the Bloom fiasco.) Jefferson shuddered at the memory.

Was David still talking? He couldn't be sure. Probably, based on the speed the Captain's mouth was moving. Or maybe he'd taken up pantomime.

"Coffee," Jefferson muttered as they walked toward the M3P office.

"Belle probably has a pot on by now," David sighed. "But I'm serious, Jefferson. I want to know what you think! It's a great opportunity for peer learning with actual professionals. Mary Margaret thinks I should bring it up with Mr. Gold, and even Kathryn said it couldn't hurt to try."

"Sure, David. Whatever you say."

That seemed to perk him up, and Jefferson noted a slight jaunt to his gait as they pulled open the door to Gold's office. Belle was already there, naturally, and she pressed a large mug of hot coffee with three sugars and a generous helping of cream into Jefferson's waiting hands.

"Just the way I like it," he smiled. He blew off the steam and tested the temperature with this edge of his lips. Satisfied, he took a long swig before flopping down on one of Gold's antique seats.

"I know," Belle teased. "It's almost as though making your coffee is my job."

"I pay you for more than that," Gold complained, sipping at his own beverage. He took his black, dark, and strong. Jefferson remembered nearly choking on Gold's bitter tar when Belle once mixed up their cups by mistake. "You're not under any contractual obligation to baby the Pilots. I assure you, they're quite capable of fetching their own drinks."

"Where's the fun in that?" Jefferson yawned, gulping down the rest of his coffee and holding the empty cup out to Belle. He made a hopeful, pleading face.

"How many cups did you have before you got here, hm?" she asked, a good-natured smile on her face.

"Just two! And it was tea, not coffee, so it doesn't really count," he insisted.

"You know you're not supposed to have that much sugar and caffeine all at once," Belle admonished. "It's bad for your heart."

"These early mornings are bad for my heart," he shot back. She handed him a half-cup, with only a pinch of sugar and a dribble of milk in response.

"There. Maybe if it doesn't taste like candy you'll drink it more slowly."

Jefferson grimaced, but accepted the cup with a pout.

"Forgetting something?" Gold asked pointedly. "Something like _thank you, Belle, for making me coffee even though I'm completely capable of getting it myself_?"

"Fanks," Jefferson managed between hot, quick slurps. The next sip burnt his tongue.

"Mr. Gold, I want to talk to you about something," said David in a serious, business-like voice with no transition or customary small-talk at all. Every face in the room turned expectantly toward him. He looked very earnest and nervous – whatever was coming, it ought to be good.

"Well by all means, dearie, let's hear what you have to say," purred Gold. In another man, the tone might have been comforting.

"I think we should establish a Pilots' Lounge."

"The last thing I want from either of you two pilots is more lounging," Gold quipped back, returning his focus to his cuppa.

"Not just for us," David pressed on. "It would be for all the Pilots in the air field. I thought it would give us a chance to socialize with our peers and learn from actual professionals."

"You _are_ a professional, David. Need I remind you, you are actually paid to fly?" Jefferson chimed in. This was better than he could have hoped.

"Well, yes," David nodded after taking a moment to think about it. "But – and Mr. Gold, I know you're not going to like this – but don't you think it might improve my operating skills to spend some time with pilots other than Jefferson? Even Captain Jones is—"

"You are not bringing that blackguard into my office!" Gold snapped, slamming his mug onto the desk. Coffee splashed out and immediately browned some of his documents.

Jefferson bristled at the Captain as well. What the hell did he mean by that? He was a great pilot – as good as Jones, if not better, and certainly good enough to teach the likes of David Nolan. Well, if David wanted to dig his own grave, Jefferson was more than willing to let him.

"I know you don't want him in the office," David tried again. "That's why I wanted the Pilots' Lounge! You wouldn't even have to look at him, we'd just be in a little room, on the air field, comparing notes and doing our flight logs."

"Absolutely not," growled Gold.

"Well, look," said David with a stupid kind of courage that might have served him well in the sixteenth century. "You can't control how I spend my time. And I need to get practice because I… well, I just need to improve my scores, alright? I barely qualified last time—"

"We _know_," glared Gold. "Anybody who's ever flown with you before knows. I can feel the plane buckle every time you start to taxi."

"Well, fine. But if I can find a free room on the air field and get Captain Jones to go over a few pointers with me, then you can't stop me from—"

"By all means, dearie, help yourself. If you can find a vacant room and lure Jones there long enough to learn something, far be it from me to stop you. Best get to it, in fact – we wouldn't want you to waste this valuable opportunity." He nodded pointedly toward the door.

Jefferson watched in mute fascination as Gold banished the Captain from his office, and David himself seemed to be moving in a haze, unsure what had happened but very, very sure that his presence would not be required today. He should have known better than to mention Killian Jones this early in the day. And not just any day, a _Neal_ Day.

The First Officer turned around to complain that he was more than qualified to give David flying lessons, but Belle had already scooped Gold's coffee out of his hands and was in the process of telling him that he'd had more than enough caffeine for the day.

…

"David's not the only one who could do with some practice, Rum," Belle said as she cleaned out the coffee maker. "You could stand to improve the way you speak to the passengers." She had a good idea of how they could spend the rest of their day, and hoped that he wouldn't dig in his heels too deep.

"I most certainly do not," Rum grimaced. "I haven't shouted at anybody in weeks."

"Glaring daggers at them when they ask for another shot of whiskey in their coffee is not exactly friendly," Belle explained. "But yes, you have been a lot less prone to making the passengers cry since we got back from Argentina. And I appreciate it – I really do – but you've been flying with us a lot more frequently, and if you're going to be a flight attendant then you might as well be a good one."

"Oh, we could make a game of it!" chirped Jefferson.

"What do you mean?" Belle asked him.

"We'll make it a Mystery Passenger Game. Belle and I will be the passengers, and Goldie will be our steward."

"That's—" Rum started to object, but Belle quickly interrupted him.

"That's actually not a bad idea, Jefferson," she said. "Should we do it here, or do you think we need to practice inside Juliette?"

"Now wait a minute," Gold challenged. "I've got work to do, I'm—"

"It'll be good for you," Belle decided. And added to herself that it might also be good for him to focus on something other than Neal (namely his absence) for a while. Days like this always left him looking haggard and hollow, but she'd never in a hundred years tell him that he was wasting his time. Rumford could be a caustic, nasty piece of work when something irritated him, but he had the patience of a saint and hope of a martyr when it came to his son. That kind of love was heady stuff.

Without too many complaints, she took Gold's hand and led him toward the plane. Jefferson let them in, turned on the Auxiliary Power Unit, the lights in the cabin came to life. They both settled into plush, leather seats wide enough that she could fit a second person comfortably beside her, and looked at Rum expectantly.

"Start with the cabin address and safety announcements," she instructed.

Gold reluctantly picked up the receiver and pushed the button. A familiar bing-bong sounded in the cabin, and then he began the routine.

"Good morning, I am your cabin attendant Mr. Gold. Welcome aboard our M3P local flight from Storybrooke to Augusta—"

"Boo!" Jefferson shouted. "Boring!"

"Let's go to Kathmandu instead," Belle suggested.

"Why Kathmandu, of all places?" Gold asked. He seemed genuinely interested.

"Because it's just… it's just the kind of place that only serious travelers ever get to see. With the mountains and the monasteries… I know it's not an idyllic Shangri-La, really, but I've always told myself I'd see it someday. We're just pretending – so why not Kathmandu?"

"Why not Timbuktu, for that matter?" Jefferson teased.

Gold took this all in stride and, after several notes on the pessimism and fatalism of his safety speech, he'd adequately welcomed them onboard their international flight to Nepal.

"Try taking my drink order next," she smiled.

"No, no, no," Jefferson groaned. "This is not how the game works. You have to decide who you are first."

"What?" Belle balked. Jefferson clearly had something more elaborate than basic passenger requests in mind.

"You have to pick somebody to imitate, and Goldie has to serve you as if you were them, otherwise it's not a game! He gets bonus points if he can figure out who you are. Start with me, I'll demonstrate."

Gold's glare could have burned a hole through the fuselage, but Belle gave him an encouraging look and he begrudgingly asked: "Can I get you something to drink, Sir?"

"Madam!" Jefferson snapped, flipping his hair and rolling his eyes.

"I'm so sorry," Rum seethed. "Can I get you something to drink, _Madam_?"

"Talisker, two ice cubes. And hurry up, I haven't got all day," Jefferson snapped in a near-perfect impression of the Mayor.

Belle giggled despite herself, and Gold looked like a man torn. Whatever inner war he was waging, the kinder side won out, and he pantomimed pouring a glass of whiskey for Jefferson.

"Here you are, Madame Mayor. Can I get you anything else?"

"You forgot the ice," Jefferson sneered. "If you were a horse I'd have you put out of your misery. My instructions were perfectly clear."

"She's not that bad," defended Belle, but Jefferson paid her about as much mind as the Mayor might have – which was to say almost none at all.

Gold glared viciously at Jefferson as he made the imaginary whiskey again. He looked like he was on the verge of calling off their impromptu practice-session, so Belle pressed her call-button before he could back-out.

"Can I help you, Miss?" Gold sighed, turning toward her.

"Yes, I was wondering what your gluten-free dining options were?" she batted her eyelashes prettily.

"We have chicken or beef," Gold promptly told her. She thought he had a hint of a smile playing over his face.

"And there's no gluten in either of them?" Belle pressed him.

"I don't think so?" Rum supplied.

"No, Rum," she gently corrected. "The catering company's chicken is usually made with a flour-wash, so it's almost never gluten-free."

"Hey!" Jefferson snapped. "You weren't pretending to be anybody. That was just regular _learning_," he spat the word as though it hurt him to say. "Come on, Blue Belle, it's no fun if you're not going to play." Jefferson pushed his call-button five times in rapid succession.

"Can I help you Miss?" Gold asked him with about as much enthusiasm a six-year-old had for broccoli.

"Lemon tea, and make it snappy!" Jefferson shrieked in a high voice. "It's just impossible for me to get a good cup of tea lately. Would you believe some asinine groupie actually dared to ask for my autograph in the line at Starbucks yesterday?"

"Your tea, Miss," said Gold after going through his pantomime.

"Don't make eye contact with me!" Jefferson carried on. "Don't you know who I am?"

"Er…" Gold stalled out.

Belle knew right away that Gold wouldn't be able to place him. "It's Ms. Ficent," she whispered, and Jefferson went into an immediate pout over her cheating.

Jefferson's sore losing turned out for the best; Belle took the time to talk Gold through the proper way of extinguishing a passenger's cigarette and what he'd have to do if a blind person needed to use the restroom.

…

David's palms were sweating and his breath coming in uneven pants by the time he worked up the courage to board the plane. He'd looked for them everywhere – the M3P office, the fire crew break room, the air field manager's office – all to no avail. It wasn't until he headed into the hangar and heard the sounds of laugher pouring out of a very-much lit-up plane that he began to panic over how, exactly, to proceed.

Aside from being vastly irresponsible and against air-safety regulations, he was fairly sure that what he'd just witnessed was an international crime.

Belle's voice drifted to his ears, but he definitely didn't hear her right. It sounded like she was saying, "Get that fine rear over here and pour us another drink, baby. Kathmandu awaits!"

When he climbed the stairs into the cabin, he saw Mr. Gold and Belle blushing deeply and Jefferson suffering from a fit of giggles in one of the seats.

"David!" Belle recovered quickly. "Hi. I was just pretending to be Mr. Reeve for the Mystery Passenger Game." She looked just a little ashamed.

"Captain Nolan," Gold glowered. "I believe I dismissed you for the day. We'll call if we need your _actual professional_ skills later this afternoon."

"Oh, but… this is actually important," said David. He forced himself not to flinch or back away. "Could I borrow First Officer Madden for a moment, please?"

Jefferson rolled his eyes, but he got up without complaint. The pair of them beat a hasty retreat, leaving Mr. Gold and Belle to their game.

"What's up, David?" Jefferson grinned lazily. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Ew, and you smell like The Rabbit Hole."

"Er… do you remember how I mentioned that I might talk to Captain Jones about getting some pointers?"

"It'd be rather hard to forget. I thought Gold was going to throttle you."

"Yes, well, I tracked him down and I… well, one thing led to another, and he showed me this abandoned fuselage in the back of the air field, and everyone was there – the ground crew, the fire crew, even Mr. Smee, the manager – and they, um…" David had never been good at confessions. If he were, maybe he'd be able to tell Kathryn about the half-completed divorce papers in his flight bag.

Jefferson waited patiently for him to continue.

"Well, as I said, one thing led to another, and it turns out that they've got a whole club house back there. With card games and cigars and dirty calendars, and… well, and alcohol. And I didn't mean to, but Killian is just so… so…"

"Mean and conniving?" supplied Jefferson.

"So _cool_," David pushed on. "And next thing I knew he gave me some rum, and now I've had a drink and I'm not fit to fly and you and Belle will have to do it again. And Gold will fire me if he finds out, so I thought maybe I could just sleep it off, but when I went to leave I saw…"

"You saw?" Jefferson waggled his eyebrows at him.

"I saw a bunch of wooden crates from Cuba! What if they're smuggling drugs?"

Jefferson doubled over laughing at him.

"This is serious, Jefferson! It's gross misconduct to drink on duty at an air field, and I think Killian might be smuggling drugs into the country!"

"I'm sure he is," Jefferson told him. "From Canada, most likely. The only drug of note they make in Cuba is the tobacco variety."

David didn't understand at first, but Jefferson kept talking.

"The cigars they were smoking are probably illegal Cubans. They can sell for a pretty penny, to the right buyer, but if you don't store them properly they'll dry out. If that happens, you're basically sitting on a cargo full of dry leaves. What you saw was probably stuff they couldn't sell – no one in their right mind would leave fresh Cubans sitting around a junked air plane."

"But it's definitely illegal!" David insisted. "I know for a fact he's got a flight-plan scheduled in the next two hours. We have to report them. Only…"

"Only Mr. Smee is in on it and you're guilty by association," Jefferson surmised. "Yes, and I imagine the air field would close down if half of the ground crew were fired. At bare minimum, they'd never work for us again – they're all independent contractors, so M3P would close in a heartbeat."

"You're taking this alarmingly well," David accused.

"I know about the card games," Jefferson shrugged. "And obviously I know a thing or two about bringing luxury goods into the country. Was everyone drinking, or just Jones?"

"Just him, I think. And Mr. Smee. Maybe had a couple of guys from the Tower were drinking, too, but I think they were off duty." David tried to remember if there was anything else he'd seen, but Jones had this charismatic way of warping people in his proximity. They'd been having a very good time, until David got twenty or thirty feet away from the plane and really thought about what he'd been seeing. Everyone had been so happy to see him – said it made him a _real_ Captain! And he believed them!

"Well, you've certainly been Jonesed," Jefferson frowned. "So here we are, an ex-smuggler and a Boy Scout at a crossroad of ethics and practicality. You're going to report him – I know you are – but you want me to… what? To help you avoid being caught up in it? I'm good, but I'm not that good, David. No one is, except for maybe Gold, but I wouldn't bring him in on this if you can help it. His first priority is the company - or maybe getting back at Killian? Making Goldie choose between revenge and money is a toss-up even on the best of days, and Belle would definitely make you call the police. You were right to come to me."

David gulped. "I'm going to lose my license, aren't I? I can't lose this job, Jefferson! What would Mary Margaret think? What would Kathryn – oh God, what if I go to jail for this?"

Jefferson took a moment to think, and then a wicked grin spread over his face.

"I think I can probably put an end to the on-duty drinking and maybe even put a dent in the smuggling," he said. "But it'll be every bit as down-and-dirty as Jones is."

"But legally, we—"

"Legally, Captain, you have the right to remain silent and the right to an attorney – and Gold's not that generous, so I imagine you'd be stuck with whatever public defender George Spencer manages to dig up."

So that was it then: he had a choice.

"You're damned if you do and damned if you don't," Jefferson added, almost as an after-thought.

"Fine," David whispered. "Fine. Let's do it your way. What can I do to help?"

"Oh, nothing much," chuckled the First Officer. "All I need is a little discretion and a cell phone."

"Blackmail?" David blanched.

"Of course not. Blackmail is a temporary solution at best, and we're not trying to extort any money from him. Although there is one thing we could... Anyway, the victims of blackmail tend to retaliate. I think an anonymous email to Milah about what her booty-call gets up to without her should work out well for everybody, don't you? After all, she has the most to lose after Jones if his license is revoked. Imagine what her alimony and custody arrangement would look like if Gold could prove Jones was an international criminal! It's a shame we can't tell the old monster, but there's no way Jones wouldn't take you down with him. Oh well. Her crazy will come out in front of the wrong person some day, and then Goldie will get his day." Then a single, dry burst of laughter escaped Jefferson's throat and he added, "It really couldn't happen to a nicer lady."

...

"Very good, Rum! That's the last one I can think of. What should we do next?" Belle asked him. They'd managed to go through the last of her practice scenarios fairly quickly without Jefferson's constant interruptions. Gold didn't know how likely it was that he'd employ any of it, but it was time with Belle and he took it gladly.

She looked up at him from her seat with that adorably sweet, humorous smile that Gold loved on her face - as though she'd heard the best secret in the universe and couldn't wait to tell. The Mona Lisa had nothing on Belle French for enigmatic smiles, Belle's were just infinitely more valuable.

"I think I've had enough practice for one day, if it's all the same to you," Rum grinned back. He hoped he didn't look the part of the fool; it was just too hard to school his features when he was around her. Instead, he turned and walked toward the galley. "Would you care for a drink?" he offered.

"Should we really?" Belle asked. "We still might have to fly."

Gold sighed. Belle was kind - too kind to an old fool - and he'd nearly forgotten why they really got to spend so much time in close quarters today.

"I know Neal's not going to come, you know," he confessed. He almost managed to quash the waver in his voice, but Belle read him so well that he didn't know why he bothered any more. "Milah never brings him unless the court forces her, and even then... There's really no point in denying yourself on account of a tired, old man too desperate to accept the truth. Have a drink if you want one. I do."

Belle got up and joined him in the galley, plucked the Scotch bottle from his hand, and put it away.

"It's not desperate," she told him, taking his hand in hers. "It's hopeful. You're so stern and cross sometimes, but when I see you with Neal... You'd do anything for your son, and I don't think you know how wonderful and rare that is. How admirable. You're a good father, Rumford."

Then, as though she hadn't just paid him the only compliment that mattered, she emptied half a jar of maraschino cherries into two glasses, poured a measure of ginger ale into each, and added a splash of grenadine. She garnished the pair of Shirley Temples with tiny umbrellas and led him back to the plush cabin seats.

"It's sweet," Gold choked after trying his first sip. "And I think it's more cherry than beverage."

"I love cherries," Belle confessed. "Sometimes, when no one's paying attention, I just sit and eat them in the galley. Dove buys extra for me."

Rum laughed out loud at that. "I'll have to speak to him about controlling business over-head," he teased.

"Says the man who goes through a whole jar of pickles in a week," Belle teased back. She stabbed two of the brilliant red fruits with the end of her umbrella and popped them between her candy-red lips. Lord help him, but those lips were made to be kissed.

"Belle, I... I've been meaning to tell you that I... well, I hoped you might-"

"Papa!" shouted a familiar voice. Juliette was filled with the patter of tiny feet. "Papa, Mamma says she's real mad at Killian so you and me get to play today!"

"Neal!" Gold gasped, dropping to his knees in the aisle despite the pain in his leg and wrapping his arms around the child. "Of course we can play, kiddo. Give me a minute to check with your Mum and I'll see if we have time to take Juliette up."

"We don't have to play regular airplanes, Papa - I brung my dinosaurs!" The boy roared and started to jump like a mix between a kangaroo and a T-rex. He dumped out his backpack at Belle's feet, handed her a stegosaurus, passed his father the triceratops, and kept the infamous Tyrant for himself.

"I'd still better talk to your Mum. Will you be alright with Belle for a few minutes?" he asked, directing the question more to Belle than his son. She nodded, a fiercely happy smile plastered on her face, and started to play dinosaur-airplane with the giggling child.

Gold limped as quickly as he could to the door and poked his head into the hangar. Milah was nowhere to be seen, but he spotted her quickly enough giving her fly-boy a piece of her mind. Oh good - so he wasn't the only person in the world who could put _that look_ on her face.

"Milah," said Rum. He didn't care what he was interrupting. "How long will Neal be here? I could take him to dinner if-"

"Keep him for the night," she snapped, barely looking at him. "Killian and I need to have a few words. Privately," she stressed. "You can drop him off at my place in the morning."

Gold was already walking away from her.

"Feed and wash him before you bring him home, do you hear me?" she shouted after him. Gold gave a half-salute without turning around, to show that he'd heard her, and nearly wept with joy when he heard the riotous laughter filling up the M3P hangar.

Inside Juliette, Belle and Neal had the small herd of plastic dinosaurs set up on the flight instrument console, in the cockpit, and Neal wore her folded stewardess cap askew, over his dark brown curls. Belle... he was so close to telling her, if he just could have made the words come out. But what if he ruined what they had? What if she looked at him the way Milah looked at Jones? The way Milah looked at him too, for that matter? He wouldn't trade any comfort in the world for this moment, with the three of them together and laughing. Moments like this were too precious; too much was at risk.

He sent Jefferson and David a quick text, letting them know that Neal was here, and stepped onto the flight deck.

He picked up the triceratops wedged above the altimeters. "Can I play?" he asked.

Neal roared at him and that was all the warning he got before the T-rex fighter-pilot attacked.


	12. Louisville

"Mother!" the Mayor shouted, storming into Gold's office in an indignant rage. "You can't just order me into a town car in the middle of the night and then force the driver to hold me hostage in the back seat!"

Rumford could feel the start of a tension headache forming behind his eyes.

"Sit down, Regina. This is for your own good," Cora smiled, exuding calm. Beautifully made-up in a classic cocktail dress that looked as though it fell out of an Ingrid Bergman film, Cora remained poised, in control, and as poisonous as ever. She was a true beauty, like her daughter, even as she aged – but Gold had more than thirty years of hard experience dealing with Cora Mills, and he knew she had fangs better than anybody.

"I made this reservation because I love you, darling, and I want you to be happy. Don't you want to be happy? Now, you're going to the Kentucky Derby – it's my special present to you – and you can even get up to a few hours of irresponsible slumming with that stable boy of yours, if he managed to get a horse in the lists. We're going to forget all about that filthy, tattooed single-father who looks like he crawled out of a bramble patch, and we're going to have a nice time drinking mint juleps in the sun. Doesn't that sound nice, darling?"

"You're coming with me?" Her Majesty asked. Gold thought she looked almost hopeful, but then Regina never had managed to reconcile Cora's consistent disappointments with the idea of a loving mother whom she idolized.

"Good Lord, no! It's the Royal We, darling, try to keep up. You know that those ghastly Derby hats do nothing for my bone structure, and I'd rather not trek my Jimmy Choos through a manure heap. No, no. I've made this booking with our ravishingly distinguished friend, Mr. Gold, and I've ordered three new outfits for you to choose from. Everything's waiting for you on the plane. You're taking this weekend off, and when you come back you'll have your head on straight and we'll move past all this talk of fraternizing with the help," Cora dictated. "Now, speaking of the help, where are your employees, Rumford?"

Regina shot him an accusatory glare, as though he'd been in on this from the beginning.

"Just so we're clear, dearie, your mother didn't tell me that this trip was an ambush when she booked it," Gold told her, leaving Cora's question hanging in the air. "I'm certainly not going to be party to kidnapping."

"She's going," Cora told them both. She left no room to argue about it, and Gold didn't bother trying. The look of resignation in Regina's eyes said it all: she wasn't going to fight.

And then, as though his morning couldn't get any more annoying, his Pilots wandered through the door.

"Good morning, Madam Mayor!" Jefferson trumpeted, snapping to attention and pressing the back of Regina's hand to his lips. "It's a glorious day for racing, the Louisville weather is clear, and we'll be taking off within the hour. I do hope you enjoy your flight with us, and may I just say on behalf of the crew that we're all looking forward to the Run for the Roses this year!"

"Jefferson…" Gold growled. He had Mr. Dove on stand-by to go through the traditional Race Day frisking of the First Officer, Her Majesty's requisite bottle of Talisker whiskey was still securely stored in his desk drawer.

"Ah, excellent, I was just asking after the help," smiled Cora, sauntering between her daughter and the two idiots. She dipped her perfectly manicured hands into her purse and produced a small billfold. "Here, this is for you."

She offered a fifty dollar bill to each of them.

"Thank you, Mrs. Mills!" grinned Jefferson. "And if I may just compliment you on the—"

"Save it, Captain, I'm not flying with you. That's your tip for the flight – and it's all you'll get. Regina and I have talked about her disproportionate generosity for common day-laborers, and she will not be passing out money like a broken ATM this time. Will we, darling?"

"Um… actually, I'm the Captain," David told her before Regina found her voice. Gold noticed Jefferson wince beside him and step out of the line of fire as Cora advanced; even the Mayor looked dumbstruck at Nolan's idiocy.

Gold almost felt bad for David as Cora gave him a scathing once-over, and then tucked a fifty dollar bill into his breast pocket without responding. She didn't have to – David was thoroughly cowed. She spun on her heel to address him instead of the other men in the room.

"Good Lord, Rumford, I didn't realize you had joke pilots to go with your joke airline. Milah must be seething. Shame, it'll wrinkle her prematurely. Poor Regina here will be the same – but I suppose not all of us can age gracefully." Cora gave him a sultry smile that sent chills down his spine.

He remembered those looks all too well from his youth, when they were equal in their ambition and poverty; he'd been fresh off the boat, brand new to the country. Before the late Henry Mills and Milah Frontland ever came onto the scene, he and Cora had come to any number of _understandings_.

Of course, that was also before she'd scooped him on a property deal in the Storybrooke Commons and threw him over for a shot at old money, but he'd retaliated so thoroughly over the years that they'd called a truce for the sake of their families. She had the advantage on him there, too – her daughter was pushing 30, born a year to the day after their last liaison (so at least he didn't have to worry about _that_ unfortunate responsibility), and exactly seven months after she'd married a Senator's son she ensnared while grifting at a private party.

It took him twenty-odd years post-Cora to meet Milah and convince her to have a baby, but Cora had Regina purely for comfort and strategy, and that made Rum's heart ache. It wouldn't have done, twenty-odd years ago, but a lot had changed since Neal came. Gold wouldn't trade his boy for anything.

Bedding Cora Mills was not a mistake he planned to make again, and he glared back at her until she gave up on batting her false eyelashes at him and turned her attention back to her daughter.

Belle walked in next and Gold physically ached to see her in close proximity to heartless old hag. He still hadn't told her that he loved her, and while it pained him to keep it in, at least he still got to enjoy all the benefits of having her near him as a friend and co-worker.

"Mayor Mills, if you'll come with me I'll show you to your luggage and guard the plane while you change," she smiled. Belle's bright blue eyes danced from him to the pilots, returned to Her Majesty for a moment, and then swiveled to Cora.

"Your mother really did pick out some lovely ensembles, she has excellent taste. In fact, why don't I show you both to the plane and you can go through them together? I think Mr. Gold probably needs to finish briefing the pilots before we take-off, so we should probably give them some privacy."

To his utter amazement, bot Mills women followed Belle out of his office without even a snarl, and Gold had to hold back a lovelorn grin. She was so calm, so capable – and beautiful, though that was the least of it at this point of his infatuation. He needed to tell her. Eventually. When he got a chance.

"Alright, Jefferson, show us your flight bag," Gold sighed when the women walked away. Mr. Dove joined them a few minutes later to perform his duty – it helped, Gold had learned, to leave the actual searching to a theoretically-impartial third party.

"Sorry, Mr. Madden, but you know how it goes," Dove apologized. "I've got to go through it all so you don't steal the Mayor's whiskey."

He produced another empty hip flask which Gold promptly confiscated and another bottle of clear nail polish.

"What, this again?" Gold sneered. "Let him keep it, Mr. Dove. It won't help you this year, Jefferson, we've gone back to the full-size bottle." He demonstrated by lifting the half-liter of amber perfection from the bottom drawer of his desk, cracked it open, and poured himself a small glass (making sure to slurp especially loud for effect).

"Must we really go through this every year?" the First Officer groaned.

"Well, that depends. Are you going to steal the whiskey again?" Gold deadpanned.

"Of course. It is Race Day, isn't it? I just would have thought you'd be used to it by now," the cheeky bastard sassed him.

"Well you're not stealing it this year," Rum grinned, taking another swig. "This year, I have a fool-proof plan to stop you from getting it."

"Oh, are you coming with us to keep it under lock and key? I admit, that would present a challenge, but I—"

"No," Gold answered emphatically. "I have work to do, and I'm certainly not volunteering to spend all day at the beck-and-call of Her Majesty."

"Did Belle finally pick sides, then?" Jefferson asked him.

"No," Rumford said. She most certainly had not picked sides, much to his chagrin; Belle definitely would have been his first choice. "This year, the Talisker will be under constant supervision of the Captain. Mr. Nolan owes me quite a few favors, so consider this me cashing one in."

The Captain looked ready to pass out when Gold handed the bottle of whiskey to him. Gold considered that he could have told David of his plans before now, but that would only have given Jefferson more time to thwart him. Besides, it was so very, very good to watch David Nolan squirm.

"Wh-what if he gets it?" David squeaked out.

"Then, dearie, your pay will be docked for the cost of the bottle," Rum grinned.

…

"That's not fair!" David objected. "I shouldn't have to pay for a ridiculously expensive bottle of Talisker just because Jefferson steals it every year."

"Then I suggest, Captain," the Scotsman sneered, a look of pure evil in his eyes, "That you don't let him get it. Keep it with you at all times, unless Belle's serving it. And when she's serving it, you keep Jefferson with you in the flight deck. So simple even David Nolan could do it, don't you agree, Mr. Madden?"

"We'll see," Jefferson said. He had the fire of a challenge burning in his eyes. David thought he might vomit.

David made his way toward Juliette in a haze, Talkisker clutched tight in his fingers. It nearly slipped when he entered the galley – too much sweat, too many nerves – but Belle caught it and prevented catastrophe. David snatched it back instantly.

"I was wondering when the Scotch would arrive," she smiled at him. "Glad to see Rum didn't forget. Between you and me, I think the Mayor could use a drink, and it's not even eight in the morning yet. Her mother is… well, she's something. Is the Tower ready for us? I already showed Regina to her seat."

She was looking at him expectantly, but David couldn't focus properly.

"David, you can hand that to me now," Belle indicated the Talisker. "I'll go serve Regina while we taxi."

Jefferson poked his head in from the flight deck and added, "Yes, David, give the whiskey to Belle so we can leave." The smile on his face could have tempted an angel.

"No!" David leaped away from the First Officer. "No, the whiskey will stay with me until we're in the air, and then Belle can pour, and then she can bring it straight back to me when she's done. You're not getting it this year, Jefferson."

"Don't be silly," Belle rolled her eyes. "You can't have a bottle of liquor on the flight deck during a flight – don't they have open container laws in the air?"

"Maybe," David admitted. "But I'm not planning on drinking it, so I think I'll take my chances and assume you and Jefferson aren't going to turn me in."

"But it's so unlike you, breaking the rules, Captain," Jefferson teased. "Give it to Belle. Go ahead. I'll wait."

But he didn't listen. He took his seat at the front, radioed ATC, and sent Belle to give the cabin safety announcement while the Tower authorized take-off for them.

"May I serve the whiskey now, please?" Belle asked him as soon as they reached their cruising altitude.

"I suppose…" David began.

"You know, Captain, I think I have to use the bathroom," Jefferson interrupted.

"Well, you can't," David promptly told him. "You're confined to the flight deck for the duration of the flight."

"I don't think you can do that," Belle told him. "It's supposed to be really bad for the bladder if you're forced to hold it in."

"But he's faking!" David whined. "He doesn't have to go – just look at him, he's trying to steal the Talisker again!"

Belle pressed her lips together, stifled a giggle, and said, "Look, David, how about Jefferson uses the restroom while you and I guard the Scotch in here? Then, when he gets back, I will go and serve Regina. How would that be?"

"Perfect!" snapped Jefferson, who was already out of his seat.

David wished he could have a moment to worry about owing Gold and thwarting Jefferson, but he found himself suddenly solely responsible for flying the plane. What was it Mary Margaret said about stress? Breathe deep and count to ten? He could do that. He just had to focus, and –

But Jefferson was already back.

"Excellent," said Belle. She plucked the bottle from his lap. "I'll bring this back when I'm done, since you insist, and then I think you'd be wise to invite the Mayor up to the flight deck. She likes that, and I almost feel like she deserves it after the morning she's had."

When Belle left to serve their passenger, David almost managed a sigh of relief. He even gloated a little, but Jefferson just waggled his eyebrows knowingly and said nothing.

"Um, Captain…" said Belle when she brought the bottle back and handed it to him. "I think we may have a slight problem."

"What? What? What is it?" He felt a cold sweat bloom on his neck.

"Well, I served the Mayor her whiskey, but she took one sip and barely managed to gag it down. She said it tasted horrible, so I poured another glass in the galley and _I_ tasted it as well, and… well, I'm not a Scotch expert or anything, but I don't think it's supposed to taste like _that_!"

Belle looked ready to give Jefferson a piece of her mind, but the Mayor chose that moment to visit the flight deck – uninvited – and berate them. Whatever Belle wanted to say, it was cut short by her struggle to escort their livid client back to her seat.

"Jefferson…" said David, after things quieted down a little. An edge of irrational calm crept into his hysteria – the world stopped making any sort of sense at all. "Are you magic?"

…

It irked her to admit it, but Belle had no idea how or why Jefferson had compromised the whiskey this early in their flight. Usually he waited until the return trip, at least, and Regina was quite happy in her ignorance. Watching the furious woman sputter and spit at the bitter, cheap whiskey twenty minutes into their flight had Belle in a tail-spin.

They had a few other options: Johnnie Walker Black, Chevis Regal 12-Year Blended… but none of those did a damn thing to appease the Mayor.

When Belle finally got Regina back into her seat with a Jameson and ginger ale (after a five-minute stream of apologies) she marched straight through the galley and into the flight deck.

"Jefferson!" she seethed, as angry as she'd been with him since the chocolate catastrophe. "What did you do? You know I have to serve her something she likes, at least for the departure flight, and I'm sure you knew exactly how she'd react to that little trick you played! I thought we had an understanding – I don't get in your way, and you don't cause me any undue headaches!"

"I didn't do anything, Belle. David's been watching me the whole time, and the Talisker never left his sight before you served it. I'm hurt you'd think it was me."

Belle shot an accusatory glare at the Captain, but he'd found a nice, quiet space within his own head where the only contributions he made to the situation were a low, keening whine and nervous rocking as he flew the plane. No help there, then.

"Of course it was you," she insisted, not buying his holier-than-thou innocence routine for a single heartbeat. "And just so you know, Jefferson, there's a very good chance that you've cost us all our tips, so this will be our second Race Day where we don't get anything."

"Oh, you haven't heard about the tips," Jefferson crooned. He was grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

"We got them already. Mrs. Mills was good enough to give the Captain and me fifty dollars each in the offices, though I'm hardly surprised she didn't think a lowly cabin attendant was worth anything, and I'm pleased to report that Madam Mayor will not – under any circumstances – be…. Oh, how did she put it?" Jefferson adopted a higher-pitched sneer that closely mimicked Cora's: "_Mayor Mills will not be expressing any __disproportionate generosity for common day-laborers or spitting out money like a broken ATM_."

"So you're telling me that you stole the Talisker to get back at Cora? Through her daughter? Jefferson, that's the most pointless thing I've ever heard. And Regina doesn't owe you a five thousand dollar tip anyway – you're still being paid to fly the plane. Give it back now. _Please_."

"I am telling you no such thing, because I haven't stolen the whiskey. Scout's honor!" He even had the audacity to hold up three fingers.

"You are not a Scout," Belle ground out through clenched teeth. "If I have to go back in there and listen to her scream at me over the trick she thinks I played because of your stupid, spiteful Talisker Game, I'll… I'll…"

But the words wouldn't come. She was angry – and felt she had a right to be – but threatening and meanness were so far removed from Belle's typical vocabulary that she sputtered out. If Rum were on the plane, he'd know what to say. Then Jefferson would have to give the whiskey back.

"Belle," Jefferson said seriously. "I did not, in fact, steal the whiskey. I haven't had a chance to yet." He wasn't lying, but there was definitely something he wanted to hide.

And it would be wrong to search his things, she realized. Jefferson was her friend and co-worker, and he was entitled to respect in the work place. Besides, she didn't have the authority – Mr. Gold didn't even go through the First Officer's bags, he delegated that task to Mr. Dovey. The Captain technically could order a search… but that would put him in an awkward position too, and it seemed unlikely that David would be of any use helping her investigate.

Just as it began to sink-in that she'd have to face an entire day at the Kentucky Derby with a sharp-tongued woman who loved to criticize her without the benefit of loosening her up over several glasses of Talisker, the satellite phone rang.

"Hello, this is Juliette-Lima-Yankee, Captain Nolan speaking," David answered. He appeared to be in some sort of auto-pilot daze, but Belle was too mad at Jefferson to properly appreciate the irony.

"I bloody know who it is, dearie," Gold snapped back at the Captain. "Did he steal it yet?"

David just started to make an incoherent whining sound in the back of his throat again. Belle took pity on him and took the receiver out of his hand.

"Can't talk now, Rum. We're going over a… a mountain," Belle lied. She was bad at it, she knew, but as it wasn't a habit, she hoped he'd let it slide. "Everything's fine."

"What… Belle, is that you?" But she'd already terminated the call.

"That was rather brazen of you," Jefferson teased.

She glared at him and tried to think. He was right: he never had unsupervised access to the Talisker, and he never left their sight except to use the restroom. She could search the toilet for the stolen whiskey, but beyond that… Could he have swapped them out on the ground? Except the bottle was already open when they boarded the plane, wasn't it?

Mr. Gold always made a point of having a pre-flight drink in front of the Pilots, a sort of unofficial toast to their little game; surely a man as fond of fine Scotch as Rumford Gold would have noticed if the contents of the bottle weren't what the label advertised.

And it _was_ a game, she realized. They fought and bickered about it, but if Rum truly minded he would have done something more serious about the theft, and would have found a way to punish Jefferson. If it was a game, did that mean that Gold made the substitution himself, and then just pretended to enjoy it?

But he had no way of knowing that Cora would put an end to Regina's excessive tipping (and no incentive one way or the other, since he was already extremely wealthy), but knew he'd never do something to intentionally sabotage their chances at a big pay-day. He took money far too seriously.

Then again, he really did have a serious rivalry with the Mayor's office… No. Jefferson _always_ took the Talisker. It was practically a universal constant.

"When I figure this out and David calms down, we're going to find that Talisker and put this all behind us," she clearly spelled out. "I bought us a little time with Mr. Gold, so I hope you'll use it to think about what you've done – call it a Mulligan, if you like, and you can steal it again after the Derby. I know that there's a solution I'm just not seeing, but I will see it, Jefferson, and then won't you feel silly? You _always_ steal the whiskey."

"I haven't," he replied cheekily. "And yet the whiskey is still missing. It's a mystery for the ages."

In the cabin, Regina began incessantly pushing her call-button.

Belle groaned. She was missing something – or vastly under-estimating Rumford, but she liked to think she knew him better than that by now. It had to be something obvious, but she couldn't quite…

"I'm going to go do my job, Jefferson, and when I come back I hope you'll have something good to tell me."

"I won't," he chuckled. "But nice try with the letting-me-stew-in-my-own-guilt strategy."

…

"So you're suggesting that Belle spilled the whiskey in the galley, cleaned it up, and replaced it with nasty whiskey hoping the Mayor wouldn't notice?" David parroted back at Jefferson. He really was just too much fun to tease!

"Well, think about it, Captain," said the First Officer sagely. "I didn't steal it. Nobody's been alone with the bottle since Gold opened it, except for Belle, so it stands to reason that—"

"Belle couldn't have done it," David shook his head. He still looked drawn and pale, and Jefferson did feel a little remorse for that, but he should have known better than to get involved with the Talisker on a Race Day. Besides, the $300 Gold would dock him was a drop in the bucket compared to the unpaid hours he usually demanded for his "favors." David would be fine.

"How do you know that?" Jefferson asked him, playing devil's advocate.

"Because she's _Belle_," David told him, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "She's hardly the type, is she? Besides, what could she possibly hope to profit from it? If anything, it just makes her job harder."

Damn. It was a fair point.

"Well, then," Jefferson tried another tactic. "I suppose Gold could have stolen it. Think about it: why spend the extra money on expensive Scotch that he knows I'm going to steal anyway? Unless, maybe, he uses the nail polish trick I taught you last year to refill and reseal the bottle at his house, and then just pretends it's Talisker when he drinks a glass in front of us. That way, he sticks you with the bill and stops me from getting at it all in one go. He gets a bottle of Talisker, which you'll conveniently pay for, as well as the satisfaction of knowing that I can't possibly steal something that was never on the plane in the first place."

The Captain spent a moment digesting this.

"He is an evil genius," David allowed. "But would he really do that to Belle? I mean the Mayor can be… I mean, wow."

"Seems plausible to me," said Jefferson. "He's a mean, old bastard when he sets his mind to it."

"So that's it then – there's nothing we can do. He's won."

"Well, there is something…" Jefferson smirked, and went on to explain in detail how David could get himself out of the frying pan without landing in the fire.

On cue – as Jefferson knew it would – the satellite phone rang again. Good old Gold – you could count on him to go into a ten to fifteen minute Belle-proximity coma before dialing them up again, usually with a lot more piss and vinegar than his first attempt.

"Hello?" David answered. Jefferson leaned in to hear.

"Dammit, David, don't hang up on me again," Gold griped on the other end.

"But – I didn't – Belle—"

"Did he steal the bloody Talisker or not?" their employer barked, accent thick.

The Captain looked doubtfully at Jefferson, Jefferson nodded, and David said what needed to be said. He was much more interesting since the business with Jones drinking on the air field – so much more open to compromise and suggestion.

"No, he didn't steal it," David told Gold. "Everything's fine and the Mayor wanted me to tell you how particularly good the whiskey is this year."

"Really?" Gold sounded incredulous.

"Yep. It's absolutely fine. So, since nothing's wrong, I guess you won't get to bill me for the bottle after all."

Gold actually laughed. "The flight's not over yet, Captain. I'll be in touch." The line went dead.

"See, David, what did I tell you? If you don't admit that the Mayor didn't get her whiskey, then he can't punish us for it. It's not as though he can come out and call you on it without admitting that he's the real culprit, and I guarantee you that Goldie's not going to do that." Jefferson patted the Captain on the back.

"Well, I—"

"Sorry," Belle called at them from somewhere in the galley. The flight deck door whipped open and the Mayor stomped in. "I tried to stop her, but—"

"I am quite capable of governing myself, Miss French," Regina snapped. "Now, Mr. Madden, this has been the day from hell for me and I don't intend to spend the rest of it sober or drinking swill. I've got a whole wardrobe of terrible outfits on a rack in your hold – a gift from my mother – and I'll conveniently forget them when Mr. Dove drives me home if one of you two idiots can get me a bottle of Talisker."

She was met with two blank, uncomprehending pilots.

"They're worth at least five thousand dollars on consignment!" she hissed, as though this should have been obvious to them. "So you get your tip, I get my whiskey and three fewer travesties to hide in my closet, and my mother is none the wiser at the end of the day. It works out perfectly for everybody, so what do you say?"

"Er, well, I'm sorry Mayor Mills," David started. "We really don't have any Talisker for you. You see, what happened is, Mr. Gold st—"

"Here you go," interrupted Jefferson, scooping the unattended bottle up from the floor, near David's feet. "Belle, wash all the glasses really well before you pour it and everything should be fine."

Comprehension dawned in the pretty brunette's eyes, and she gave him a glare that very clearly stated 'this isn't over' and 'wipe that grin off your face.' She and the Mayor retreated, leaving David huffing and struggling to fit together the pieces.

"What – but you said Gold—"

"I only said that to get you to tell him I didn't steal it," Jefferson confessed. "But I did." He hadn't planned to enact his scheme until their take-off from Louisville, but that was before Cora Mills insulted him and threatened his very lucrative Race Day tip. After that, the kid gloves came off.

"_How_?"

"With this," said Jefferson. In for a penny in for a pound – Belle was on to him, so he wouldn't get a second pass at the Talisker, and for the purposes of their game he had soundly defeated Gold. He produced a small, clear bottle from his pocket.

"Nail polish? But you can't – Mr. Gold opened it in his office—"

"This isn't nail polish," he winked. Jefferson could never ignore a chance to gloat in front of David; it was one of his most enjoyable weaknesses. "This bottle contains a perfectly harmless, incredibly bitter substance that pediatricians prescribe to otherwise lovely daughters won't stop biting their nails. I just peeled off the label, and Gold saw what he wanted to see."

The Captain gaped.

"A few drips into the whiskey tumblers on my way to the toilet, when I passed through the galley, and it was in the bag. You all assumed that I stole it and refilled the bottle with Johnnie Tartan again, when in fact my cunning sabotage just made you _think_ I stole it – so then, when you and Belle stopped guarding the bottle, I could come back and steal it unattended. What do you think of that, Captain?"

"Mr. Gold is going to kill me."

"He doesn't have to find out. All's well that ends well, as they say."

"No."

"No?"

"_No_. I'm done letting you talk me into lying for you. It never ends well. And Belle wouldn't lie to him."

"Your loss, then," shrugged Jefferson. "Just make sure you include the part where I'm a thieving prodigy – if Gold's going to know I beat him, I want him to know how badly."

David didn't say anything for a long time; he just went back to his low, unintelligible whining as they began their descent in Kentucky.


	13. Montego Bay

"You're being compensated for your time in the air, plus a perfectly reasonable flat salary to participate in this corporate retreat, not to mention that it will be taking place in an all-inclusive resort by the sea-side – for which I am also paying! Stop complaining and go file the flight plan," Gold demanded, a trademark scowl on his face.

"All I'm saying is that if you're bringing along Dove and the D.A., you could have let me bring Grace. Apparently M3P is on a bit of a hiring spree lately." Jefferson scowled back at him and rolled his eyes.

"Oh, aye," Gold glared. "And then, of course, I'd have to let the Captain bring his mistress or his wife – maybe both, knowing David's track record! And we might as well see if Milah and her fly-boy fancy a Jamaican holiday while we're at it, since it's a family affair."

"I just don't like being away from her for this long," the First Officer sulked.

It wasn't that he didn't look forward to the paid time at a resort, but it was hard for him to be in the air so often now that his little girl was growing up. Thank goodness for his sister, Alice – she and her husband never had any children of their own, and they adored his angel. But four days – hell, he'd go try again with one of the major airlines (assuming any would have him back) if he wanted to be gone for weeks at a time. Flying out of Storybrooke was _supposed_ to be a compromise.

"It's only four days," sighed Gold. Jefferson knew he went months, sometimes, without seeing his own son, so four days probably didn't seem like long. He tried not to hold that against Gold now. "And, as I mentioned before, it is _mandatory_, First Officer Madden."

"Yes, and I'm sure Mr. Spencer's presence is also _mandatory_," Jefferson snickered, but did as he was told.

It didn't take a genius to see through the veneer of Gold's "corporate retreat" ploy: he'd hired the D.A. on to consult privately as M3P's legal representative, citing his own expertise in wills, deeds, and contract law as inadequate for the needs of an international airline. The part about being out of his depth with federal air regulations was probably true, though Gold managed quite well for them.

That this doubled as a perfectly legal sort of "perk" (though Jefferson preferred the word bribe) for a public official whose position in the Town Charter did not _technically_ prohibit him from accepting taxable wages from private individuals not involved in any public case, and provided Gold with several hours one-on-one with a man who had a fair bit of influence over every family court and custody judge in the state had not escaped the First Officer's notice. And normally he'd be happy to take the pay-off – four days in a luxury hotel, high in the cliffs, over-looking the balmy Caribbean – to keep his mouth shut, but it was cutting into his private time and these last few months between him and Gracie had been… difficult.

He repeated all of this again to David, as they began to taxi, but with significantly less speculation on Gold's motivation. It was better if a Boy Scout like David didn't have any less than wholesome suspicions about the motivation for their "vacation."

"How is Gracie, anyway?" the Captain asked him.

"Why do you want to know?" hedged Jefferson. If David meant to tease him about that time with the stuffed rabbit, then—

"No reason, just wondering how she was, since…"

"Since you found out she thought I was the Captain?" Jefferson provided. They radioed the Tower and took off mid-conversation.

"Yes, why did you tell her that?" said David. "Your daughter adores you, Jefferson; it's not as though that will change if you're not a Captain."

"I didn't tell her, she just assumed. People tend to do that."

"Yes, I noticed," David grumbled. "But you really should tell her the truth."

"I did, actually," he confessed after a moment. "Not too long after you came over that day, I sat her down and explained that her Papa wasn't an airplane Captain."

"And how did it go?" David prompted. They hit their cruising altitude.

"Oh, it went very well. She said she was glad I told her my secret, because it meant she could tell me hers," Jefferson frowned at the memory. He didn't want to pressure his daughter to be anything other than herself, but he'd hoped – he'd dreamed – that they'd share all this; that it would be something for him to pass down.

"What secrets could a little girl possibly have?" the Captain joked. Jefferson scowled.

"She told me that it didn't bother her that I wasn't the Captain, because… well, because she really hates airplanes and is scared fo flying, and said she'd rather play dress-up or tea party when I'm home, and wasn't that nice now that it wasn't a secret anymore?"

"Oh," said David.

"Yep," sighed Jefferson. "Despite my best efforts, I have raised a child with no interest at all in aviation. I thought maybe she'd take after her mom." Gracie's mom had loved to fly, and their daughter looked so much like her… but Jefferson would never shoe-horn his best gal into a hobby she didn't like.

"Oh, I didn't want to mention Grace's mother without… you know. But since you brought it up, what—"

An alarm sounding in the galley, accompanied by several warning bells and lights in the flight deck, and Belle burst into the cockpit accompanied by a thick cloud of black smoke.

"Jefferson, we need to land now! Something's wrong with our microwave – I don't think there's a fire, but the smoke is…" She gestured at the atmosphere darkening around them.

"Say no more, Blue Belle," said Jefferson. Smoke in the galley was a common enough problem, it had forced many fine crafts to the ground, and nine times out of ten they never discovered the actual cause. Besides, the timing could not have been better. Jefferson never talked about his wife, if he could help it; it was just too hard.

He moved to begin their emergency landing procedure, but David had already picked up the radio handset and was making arrangements for them on the ground.

…

"Well here's your problem," the stout electrician told him, peeling a lump of charred plastic from the bottom of their industrial-sized microwave oven that Belle used to re-head the catering.

The passengers obviously knew that their meals weren't prepared fresh on each flight (though some of Gold's wealthier customers certainly got their share of fresh, fancy food to eat), but most did not put together (or choose to acknowledge) that their food was pre-packaged by caterers and re-heated before Belle wheeled it out on her trolley. As a result, small jets came with very large microwaves capable of warming upwards of 20 entrees at a time.

David turned over the lump in his hand and examined it. It looked like a sort of greenish-brown blob.

"What the hell happened?" snarled Mr. Gold. He hated diverting and emergency landings almost as much as he hated Killian Jones, a fact that David had learned by hard experience with both.

"It was my fault, Rum," said Belle, saving David the trouble of saying that he hadn't the slightest clue. "I'm sorry – I think Neal must have left one of his army men in there last weekend. I should have checked before I started to warm up the breakfast, but I was reading and I-"

"It's alright, sweetheart," Gold hushed her, cupping her cheek. "It was an easy mistake to make."

It just figured that he'd be calm and reasonable now that it turned out to be _Belle's_ mistake. David tried very, very hard not to imagine all the things that his employer and the cabin attendant might get up to while he and Jefferson weren't looking and he winced. The galley counters, the lavatory, the seats… God, what if they'd _associated_ in the flight deck?

And it wasn't that they were inappropriate or obvious in the least – but he was acutely aware that the pair of them made eyes at one another when they thought nobody was looking, and if Gold wasn't getting intimate with Belle, then he was the most timid, smitten bastard David had ever met. As neither of those were words he'd use to describe Gold (who could be demanding and vicious even on the best of days), he had to assume that things had… progressed.

He shuddered at the thought.

"It looks like nothing's wrong with the wiring, though you'll have to give it a good scrub, and you might have a bit of a burnt plastic taste in the food for a few days… but I've seen worse," the electrician was saying.

"You should be clear to take off within the hour, once exhaust fans do their job and pump out the smoke."

"Exhilarating," drawled Mr. Spencer from somewhere behind the crowd. "I can see now why you spend so much time with your glorified cab service, Gold." The man's voice had a judgmental bite to it, which David didn't like at all.

David would never in a million years dream of talking to Mr. Gold like that, but apparently the rules were different for men of Mr. Spencer's station. And rather than glaring or snapping back a witty retort, Gold held his tongue and – was it David's imagination, or did Gold look a little self-conscious?

It had never occurred to David that becoming the CEO of M3P Air would be seen as a step-down for Gold by his colleagues and peers – that running a charter airline was something of which men as wealthy and well-connected as Gold should be ashamed. Unless Spencer was getting at something else?

"If you'll just come out and sign the tech-log, Captain, I can get you back into the holding queue," concluded the electrician. He was talking to Jefferson, and that was just too for David's brain to cope with.

"Actually, I'm the Captain," he told the man, a bit more snippily than he meant. "Look at the stripes on my arm, look at my hat."

"Gosh, so you are," the electrician sassed back, taking in his uniform with a raised eyebrow. "Apologies, _Captain_. Right this way, _Captain_. Wouldn't want to delay you any longer than we must, _Captain_."

"That's better," David huffed, following him out of Juliette. "I'm not an unreasonable man, I just like to do things by the book. And I _am_ the Captain," he added as an afterthought.

"Wait, what's this?" David asked, looking up at the plane's tail as they headed for the office. "Our tail navigation light is out. I'm sure it was on when we took off, or I would have noticed. I conduct a meticulous walk-round."

"And how long ago was it that you took off?" the unpleasant man asked him. "About thirty minutes? But yes, Captain, I'm sure that's long enough for it to overheat and ruin the filament."

"But you didn't point it out," David insisted. "It's your job to certify our electronics, and if you missed something like this, then—"

"I didn't miss it," the stout man bristled. "It's all in your write-up, but as you're only going to Jamaica and it's still mid-morning, I doubt you're at risk of someone flying into the back of you in the dark. Unless you're flying the long way around, of course, _Captain_. Most charters prefer to do simple repairs like that themselves. It's cheaper, and it saves man-hours."

"Well, it's illegal to fly without it, so I expect you to fix it," David told him. He so rarely had the high-ground, he'd be lying if he said he didn't enjoy it. "I won't sign-off on your tech log without it, and as you pointed out I am the Captain of this craft, so I can—"

But what David could do, it turned out, was enrage the air field's only certified electrician, whose signature – he reminded the Captain – was also required on the tech log before Juliette could take off. Jefferson gave him a smarmy, sly nod before sauntering off toward the canteen and leaving David to stew in the mess he'd made. Well that just figured – Gold mildly annoyed Jefferson and suddenly he became the least helpful pilot ever to set foot on a plane.

That left him with a furious electrical engineer who insisted on doing things 'by the book' – which apparently meant waiting another two hours for a free scissor lift and additional safety gear instead of using a pair of thick gloves and a step-ladder. The procedure wasn't any more complicated than changing a normal light bulb, even Mr. Gold would know that, and now David had to tell him…

He would go off the deep end. He would go to the very bottom of the Marianna Trench.

David snuck back onto Juliette, through a galley which only smelled mildly burnt, locked the flight deck door behind him, and turned on the cabin address.

_Bing-bong._

"David, what did you do now?" shouted Gold, voice muffled but audible from the cabin.

"I didn't do anything. Nothing at all," David said via the cabin address. "Just wanted to say that everything's perfectly fine with the aircraft, but the electrician and I did notice a minor problem with the rear navigation light, so while he's fixing that we'll be on the ground for… for about two more hours."

He could hear the collective groan from outside his door and wished like hell that Jefferson hadn't run off.

…

"I'll kill him," snarled Gold, downing what remained of his whiskey. Belle took his tumbler from him before he could do something silly, like throw it at someone. She didn't have to like that he was, essentially, hosting a "closed cabin" meeting with an elected official to appreciate that – should things go sour – it would reflect badly on his case.

"It will be fine," Belle smiled, trying to stay up-beat for both of them. Mr. Spencer was a difficult man to impress, and she didn't want Rum's temper getting the best of him again; it was obvious, from what little she'd heard of their conversation, that he was preparing to sue Milah for custody and wanted Spencer's support.

With a little work, she rotated four of the lush, luxuriant seats to face the aisle and set up a fold-out table. They were so generously portioned that they nearly swallowed a person the size of herself or Mr. Gold, but Dove managed to make one look slightly too small. They had just about as much space as a diner booth when she was done, which was quite a lot considering the compact nature of the plane. Milah and Captain Jones had certainly spared no expense when they fitted-out Juliette – Belle half suspected there was a hangar, somewhere, with matching sofas and loveseats waiting, in case they ever wanted to change-out the row-seats.

The men watched her work silently.

"Since we're going to be here for a while, why don't I see what we've got in the games cupboard?" she suggested, when the quiet started to bother her. Mr. Dove, at least, perked up a little when she suggested that. Rum only glowered at her, but Belle didn't wait for a reply – she was optimistic, not delusional – and fetched a few boxes from the galley.

"I have checkers, chess, Chutes and Ladders, Candyland, Monopoly, two decks of cards, and Yahtzee," she announced. "But I'm not playing Monopoly with you again, Rum, so pick something else."

He chuckled – that had been a good memory, though he ruthlessly wiped the floor with her and built hotels all over the place – and she was glad to see his sour mood lifting. Even Mr. Spencer looked amused enough to indulge her, so Belle left them to decide what to play and went to work in the galley.

She commandeered the Pilots' cheese tray, put on a fresh pot of tea, and found some crackers in the back of a cupboard that hadn't been too close to the microwave. The back of the fridge revealed a large container of spinach salad and a small container of expensive-looking seafood salad (both of which she set aside for lunch), along with a lumpy, foil-covered package that turned out to be dinner rolls from Storybrooke's artisan bakery. She halved some of the rolls, filled a small ramekin with peanut butter (from her personal supply), filled another with strawberry jam (harvested from individual packages in a drawer), and served the lot of it on a linen table cloth with orange segments.

It would have to be good enough – though the idea of Mr. Spencer actually enjoying a peanut butter and jelly breakfast roll seemed unlikely. She was sure he would have appreciated the tapas, crepes, and decadent sausages Rum intended to serve him much more than cheese and bread she hadn't even dared to toast, but the nice, catered food had gone the way of Neal's paratrooper.

As an after-thought, she even made up a small plate for David and left it on the counter in case he decided to brave the galley (the flight deck door had been most decidedly _locked_ when she tried it). When she came back to the cabin, the men were debating the validity of chess prowess as a measure of intelligence, and Belle tried not to smile too widely.

They set up a double-elimination bracket, and Mr. Spencer didn't even raise an eyebrow at the food she served. Spencer beat Dove handily in the first game, and Belle fought Gold to a stalemate in the second – though he beat her on points, and claimed the victory. In the losers bracket, Belle defeated Dove (who took the loss very good naturedly) and then Gold lost his game with Spencer (but Belle very much suspected that he threw the game intentionally). That left Belle and Gold to play again on the losers' bracket, and Belle was not moved to show him mercy if he wanted to cheat just to butter the D.A. up; in their second game, she trounced him, and he had the audacity to pout at her for a full fifteen minutes afterward.

"I must say, Miss French," said the D.A. "I hadn't expected to find so worthy an opponent in a mere stewardess. Wherever did you find her, Gold?"

Belle smiled prettily and tried not to take his tone personally. He thought he was winning – people probably let him win all the time, if even Rum found it prudent – but Belle had no such notion in mind. He took her gambit and went for the poisoned pawn, as she knew he would.

"I used to play a lot with my father," she said, making a point of not staring too long at the chess board. Consequently, Mr. Spencer mirrored her gaze, and he missed the moment her bishop threatened his queen.

"Our Miss French is full of surprises," Rum nodded. His eyes remained sharply focused on the game, and glanced knowingly at her. She tried to read his expression. Did he need her to throw this game? She could, if it would help him.

Shockingly, his honey-brown eyes gave her no such hints. If anything, he was very much enjoying her nearly-inevitable victory with the passion some men brought to a Victoria's Secret catalog. Belle could imagine Rum looking at her like that in private, finally moving to kiss her after all their long, meaningful looks and near-misses in the galley, but that was silly. This was just a chess match and he was just a man who loved strategy – even if his personal strategy had been losing, in a bid to appear less threatening. Her cheeks flushed, and she refocused on the game.

Three moves later, she declared checkmate, and Mr. Spencer took the loss more graciously than she anticipated. The three men were all half-smiling at her, waiting to see what she would do next. The atmosphere in the cabin felt a little too intense, with so many eyes trained on her, so Belle excused herself to start readying Juliette for flight.

Jefferson returned looking well-fed, sorted out whatever mess David had them in, and they took off for Jamaica again.

…

"An exquisite creature, Gold. I suppose you already have your hooks in her?" Albert asked, not even bothering to lower his voice. Rum had no doubts at all that Dove, Belle, and perhaps even a wayward pilot using the lavatory would be able to tell what they were talking about.

"Miss French is my employee," Gold answered him. "Nothing more." He spoke loudly enough to leave no uncertainty for near-by listeners and dodged the most inappropriate implications of the question.

"A pity for you, then," commented Albert. "But rather more fortunate for the rest of us. My late wife was like her – too clever by half, well-spoken, and a smile on her lips, even for old stone-faces like us. Beautiful too, with golden hair and green eyes, though I find that brunette is growing on me."

"Oh?" Gold ground his teeth.

"I've no idea where James gets his taste in women," Spencer went on. "Lord knows his mother was a good girl, and you'd think our wits combined would have been enough to ground him, but he's constantly embattled with that gold-digging clarinetist of his. His artistic temperament, I'm certain, came from her side of the family. My wife had an uncle who _painted_, but I've come to terms with the fact that James would have made an atrocious lawyer. Your Captain resembles my lad, if he lost 20 pounds, got a real job, and stopped drinking excessively."

All of this passed as though it were the most mundane conversation in the world – and it was, Gold supposed – if not for the fact that Albert Spencer (a man past his prime even by Gold's generous standards) had started the conversation by asking about the sexual availability of his darling Belle. And there was nothing Rum could do about it – he had no claim on her outside the workplace, and he needed to keep his talks with the D.A. professional.

When Albert commented on the fetching cut of Belle's uniform (implying that Gold picked it with an ulterior motive in mind) Gold had had enough.

"In my experience, Miss French is not the type to accept anyone else making decisions for her. She chose her own uniform, though I picked the color."

"Of course, of course," chuckled Albert. "A woman of fine tastes – I like that. The kind of philistine that doesn't appreciate and respect a piece of art like her may as well finger paint over a Van Gough. Sweet women deserve men with the means to spoil them, not little boys scrapping around the mall jeweler's junk-heap."

He was still speaking loudly enough for Belle to hear him in the galley, and Rum saw red. As if Belle would ever be duped by something as mundane as gold and diamonds!

"Not that you have much experience with the right kind of woman," Albert prattled on. Clearly he was enjoying this power-play too much; just because Gold was interested in courting favor with the district courts didn't mean he'd stopped owning more than half of the town, including the building where Albert's firm kept their legal offices. He also held more than ten thousand dollars of James Spencer's debt, but that little tid-bit he was saving for a rainy day.

"Milah's worse for a tantrum than my boy's clarinetist, and wasn't it Cora for you before that? She was keen on marrying rich, if I recall, and it seems she did quite well for herself. I can appreciate her brand of base cunning, when it's executed well, and Cora always did have a winning strategy."

"I take it you're a fan of strategy?" Rum all but snarled at him. Albert over-played his hand, just like he over-attacked in chess; he would be getting a very sharp lesson in the art of subtlety just as soon as Gold had his son back.

"Oh yes," grinned Albert. "It's why I've always been so fond of the courtroom, clever women, and chess."

"Then how about another game? I don't think the Pilots are nearing their descent yet, I'm sure we have time." Gold was going to demolish him.

"An excellent idea," cheered Albert. "Shall I ring for Miss French?"

"No," Gold murmured, rage reigned back in. "Miss French is busy preparing lunch, so I think we'd better let her carry on with it."

She wasn't, though. He'd ordered a decadent enough spread for a business luncheon, but the service of a cold salad and seafood sandwiches was hardly taxing work. With any luck, she had her nose stuck in a book and was deaf to the world. Or, if he was very unlucky, she'd just heard everything they said about her and was getting ready to dump salt in their tea.

"Just you and me, then," agreed the older gentleman.

Gold wiped the floor with him, then repeated the performance a second time – drawing it out and enjoying every blasted moment of it. When Belle finally did serve them lunch, he had Albert cornered, preparing for a third victory.

"If you move here, he can't take your rook," Belle pointed out, smiling as she placed a hot cup of tea alongside their plates. Bloody perfect – now she was helping the enemy.

With Belle's interference, Albert almost forced him to a stalemate, but Rum mated him in the end.

"Well, that was certainly exciting," Belle grinned, plucking a shrimp from Rum's plate and popping it between her lips. Rum's brain stalled-out mid-thought.

"Yes, it appears I'm woefully out of practice," grinned Spencer. "I wonder, Miss French, if I might have the pleasure of your company this evening? There's a lovely place that serves the best fois gras on the island, and it's not far from where we're staying. I believe they import all of their ingredients from the mainland, and they have quite the wine list. We could talk about kings, queens, and their castles."

"I'm flattered that you'd ask, Mr. Spencer, but I already have a dinner date for this evening."

She did? Rumford thought he might be ill. If there was something going on between Belle and Jefferson (or God forbid Belle and David), he didn't know what he'd do with himself.

"Rum promised we could try burgers and the local beer at the hotel bar," she continued.

He certainly had not, but who was he to argue with a lady?

"I'm a girl who prefers the simple things, I'm afraid."

"Then won't you let me treat you to a cliff-side barbecue tomorrow evening? I happen to know a three-star chef on St. Croix who could fly in—"

"Sorry, Mr. Spencer," she apologized sweetly. "I'm afraid I've got to decline."

Spencer accepted her refusal, but couldn't resist getting in a jab about Belle knowing 'where her bread was buttered' before glaring over the rim of his tea cup. Rumford nearly lost his temper, but Albert started to spit and sputter before he could articulate his rage.

"What the hell is this?" the older man roared.

Belle took the cup from him, dipped in the tip of her tongue, and winced.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Mr. Spencer. Let me get you another one – I must have accidentally refilled the sugar bowl with salt again. It's a good thing Mr. Gold takes his black," she winked at him.

Gold covered his smile by taking a sip, and it was sugary-sweet.

**Things are heating up between Rum and Miss French. Will they finally confess their feelings? Find out in Part II of M3P's Corporate Retreat: Negril!**


	14. Negril

"Well this is pleasant," grinned Jefferson, shifting uncomfortably in the seat next to David. The machismo-tension was so thick he could have cut it with a knife, but he'd have to settle for sarcasm.

From the Montego Bay International Airport, Gold had shuffled them all into town cars for the two hour drive to their resort in Negril. He and David were dumped unceremoniously in the first car, along with Mr. Spencer, while Belle, Gold, and Dove took the second. For the first hour and a half, the four of them sat uncomfortably and didn't speak while their driver prattled on about the island and where to go for the best reggae music. Eventually, though, even the driver fell silent.

"I was under the impression that the point of this little foray was for Gold's employees to rest and recuperate from the stress of working in multiple time-zones on a weekly basis," Spencer replied. "I find silence very conducive to rest and relaxation, don't you, Captain?"

"I'm the Captain," David corrected on reflex, and Jefferson snorted back a laugh. He just never learned.

Spencer just quirked an eyebrow at him, and didn't dignify him with an answer.

The world outside was balmy, sunny, and down-right tropical, but the presence of Mr. Spencer and the car's blasting air conditioner made their quiet drive almost too cold.

"I think I'll order a giant piña colada, a big plate of shrimp, and tell the waiters to keep it coming," Jefferson commented. "That sounds like the best kind of R&R to me."

"So I take it all of Gold's employees share Miss French's broad, bourgeoisie sensibilities?" Spencer smirked back at him. "Well, there's no accounting for taste. And I suppose Gold is equally guilty – Jamaica isn't what I would call a luxury retreat. Or maybe he's simply smart enough not to cast his pearls before the swine."

"As it happens," Jefferson grinned, refusing to back down now that he finally had someone else in the car talking. "Gold wanted to take us to Seychelles or Tahiti, but we all over-ruled him for Jamaica because it's closer, frankly, and we had an interesting afternoon here last time. It's got… sentimental value, you might say."

Spencer just harrumphed him and remained stone-faced.

Poor David looked to be on the verge of a nervous break-down, so Jefferson leaned back and relaxed.

They arrived intact, followed by Gold's car about 2 minutes later, and the porters helped them unpack. Jefferson couldn't help but feel a bit bitter that Grace wasn't along to enjoy the fine weather with him: their hotel was situated high on the cliffs over-looking Jamaica's western-most tip, and blue waters stretched out far into the horizon. Palm trees and pale sand clung to the coast, broken up by huge walls of rock where performers and dare-devils alike were diving.

"Oh, dearie me, I'm terribly sorry," said Gold, exiting the lobby to join them by the curb. He didn't look sorry at all, and Jefferson waited for the other shoe to drop.

"It looks as though the hotel gave up our reservation due to the delay in our arrival. I'm afraid our 7-bedroom beach house is already spoken for, but I've arranged for us to get the 5-bedroom instead, plus a private bungalow for Albert. It's at the other end of the beach, but I don't suppose we need too much more of your legal expertise on-call this weekend; I think we covered all of the essentials on the plane. I hope you don't mind being the odd-man out? The concierge assures me it's very secluded and quite nice."

"I don't mind at all," Spencer glared. "I'm sure the room service and private spa treatments will be superb." He allowed a valet to lead him away while he smirked.

Jefferson chuckled at the D.A.'s parting threat. There was something to be said for the Spencer's rather rude assessment that Jamaica was a bit middle-class for millionaires (dare he say billionaires?) like Gold. If the D.A. wanted to get back at old Goldie over whatever had soured the mood between them (and Jefferson thought he knew, but he didn't like to presume), he'd have a hard time running up a bill high enough to flummox their boss in Negril. Hundreds of dollars? Gold wouldn't blink. Thousands of dollars? Almost certainly possible, but hardly a drop in the bucket when you considered what Gold had spent in bringing them here and that he only booked this trip to bribe said public official in the first place. But tens of thousands? Now that would take some real creativity on Spencer's part, and it just might drive the old Scotsman to drink.

He wondered if he'd be able to snag a copy of the invoice on the sly, just to see which of the two, miserable old men would be the victor.

A handsome, black man with full lips and a brilliant smile scooped the last of their bags on to the trolley and invited them to follow. After a 10-minute walk, they reached what Jefferson could only describe as a mansion on the beach. His own home, which was by no means small (his wife's house, technically – he held all that money in trust for Gracie), would have fit snugly inside the place.

The walls were thick with stucco, flowering vines, and brilliant paint, and heavy, earthen tiles coated the roof. It had a courtyard with a private pool and hot tub, a private swath of beach separate from the rest of the resort, and – from the look of it – its very own staff of cooks and maids.

He would really have to stop under-estimating Jamaica; when they promised world-class luxury, they delivered, and he didn't want to die a lonely snob like Albert Spencer.

Dove shadowed Gold, until the older man dismissed him for the day, and then he immediately headed out for a walk down the beach. David proposed that they change into their trunks and go for a swim, which suited Jefferson just fine, and Belle settled onto a lounge-chair to read in her bikini. Gold, predictably, took the chair opposite Belle and at least had the decency to pretend to read yesterday's New York Times; less predictably, he'd changed from his trademark black suit into a pair of pale, linen slacks and a sedate polo shirt.

Maybe he could push his luck and replace the Ralph Lauren collection with an assortment of Hawaiian-print button-ups from the gift shop; it was far from his worst plan to date.

David would have dog-paddled in the pool all day if Jefferson had let him, but the sound of steel drums coming from the main resort called to him, and he managed to lure the Captain out of the water to investigate further.

As it turned out, the pool-side bar served up huge, frothy cocktails (complimentary to all VIP guests, which Jefferson confirmed by flashing his plastic wrist band) and an adjacent buffet held all the shrimp, crab, and tortilla chips he could ever hope to eat.

"I'm finally home!" he whooped, slapping David on the back. The Captain winced, and Jefferson almost felt bad. He'd burned, of course; sunscreen was nothing more than a passing regret and a distant memory for poor David, and he'd gone stunningly pink after their first hour outside.

"You'll make yourself sick," David cautioned, but Jefferson didn't care. He had a date with two or three pounds of pink crustaceans.

Approximately 24 hours later, everything ached. Everything stung. Jefferson eased his lobster-red face up, off the mountain of too-warm pillows and was half blinded by the sunlight streaming into his room via several picture windows with wholly ineffectual, wispy curtains. He could just about make out the form of David, spread-eagled over his own bed in the room across the hall, through their mutually open, opposite doors.

"Cap'n?" Jefferson croaked.

David snorted softly and waved a dismissive hand before making a sound half-way between a groan and a gag. There had been drinking, Jefferson recalled. Not him, he'd been operating the plane, but David... Dove let David drink half a bottle of dark rum, didn't he?

The pieces started to shuffle back into place. He could remember the resort buffet – as many shrimp as he liked! – and then he'd walked back to their private beach house quite late, with a wicked stomach ache, only to find his boss and Belle looking _guilty as hell, _and then he'd…

Well, he'd had some fun with them, until old Goldie relented (when Belle wasn't looking) and produced the company credit card so that he and the Captain could enjoy a team-building exercise, which Jefferson took as code for: _stay the bloody hell out of the way_. Except it had all gone pear-shaped, because instead of slipping that sleek, black plastic rectangle into Jefferson's shrimp-scented hands, he'd passed it off to Mr. Dove (who'd somehow snuck up on him, and Jefferson wondered if peeled shrimp wasn't a hitherto unknown form of hallucinogenic drug). And if Mr. Dove held the purse strings, then…

Damn. That ought to mean something, in context, but his sunburn had progressed beyond the subtle sting of sleep to the full-on-throb of a man whose afternoon stranded on a desert island had caught up to him. The patent Jefferson Madden sneaky-as-hell brain trust simply would not start today.

_David_ probably didn't have that problem. _David_ was probably a very healthy pink, what with his SPF-Infinity, waterproof sunscreen compliments of Mary Margaret (or was it Kathryn?), and of course Dove had put some on when David offered, but Jefferson just laughed and splashed a little SPF-None over his nose and called that a day. _David_ was probably sleeping off a run-of-the-mill hangover, and would be up for Bloody Mary's and Mimosas before sunset, whereas he'd be very lucky if he didn't end up with sun poisoning.

Jefferson's fists clenched at the thought, and he found that something hard and flat had spent the night stuck to the sweaty, pink surface of his palm. He looked at the silvery coin, stamped with a crown and shield, encircled by letters that looked vaguely like HISPAN * ET.

"David!" Jefferson bellowed, forcing himself onto wobbly legs. "David, wake up! We're going back!"

…

"So he _salted_ the sea?" Belle giggled, sipping her mimosa. Their balcony extended over the cliff-face, and the Jamaican breeze tousled her curls gently.

"Quite brilliant, actually," Gold smirked, taking a sip of his Earl Grey.

The resort offered them any number of hotel-breakfast standards on the room service menu, but Gold opted for his usual toast and eggs, and Belle stuck to a simple fruit salad with yogurt. He had no doubt that the kitchens would have their work cut out for them filling plates with eggs benedict, crepe blintzes, and – if he were feeling particularly petulant – a Full English, all of which Spencer would scoff at before throwing most of it away. But that, Gold had decided, was a worry for another day.

"I was thinking maybe we could go for a quick dip in the ocean today, if you're interested?" Belle smiled. A bit of melon juice dribbled down her fingers from the brilliant orange fruit perched at the tip of her fork, and Rum thought he'd probably agree to walk over hot coals if she asked.

"Of course," he nodded, trying not to come across too keen. Men like Spencer were too keen, and it just read as entitled and sleazy.

Swimming was good – his leg could just about handle that – and it meant that Belle would wear The Bikini.

The Bikini, in Gold's mind, was the last indulgence of a lecherous old reprobate still tolerated by society. He did his best not to leer, he didn't ever want to make her uncomfortable; afterall, it was totally appropriate beach-wear, no more scandalous than any other, and yet he'd be lying through his teeth if he tried to deny the way it turned him on. As his treacherous lower-brain liked to point out, The Bikini had Ruffles, and Ruffles were – in Gold's opinion – the pinnacle of fashion design for the last 300 years.

Pale blue nylon patterned with tiny, pale polka dots – with a generous span of skin between – cupped his Belle like a dream, only to flare out in bands of flirtatious Ruffles – obscuring the finer details of her breasts and hips while somehow conspiring to drive him mad with mystery. She looked so sweet – so ineffably Belle – when she wore the abbreviated skirt and top, that Rum could almost trust himself not to say something embarrassing, but "almost" was a tricky bastard who liked to lull miserable old fools like him into a sense of false security.

Gold was vaguely aware that he'd gone slightly too long without saying anything when Jefferson woke up and bellowed something a few doors away.

"Sounds like the boys are up," Belle grinned. "We should tell them, don't you think?"

"If you insist. Though I don't know why—"

Jefferson chose that moment to waddle out onto the balcony, but he shied away from the direct sunlight. From the tentative way he moved to the way he nearly hissed at the daylight, Gold thought he resembled a crimson amalgamation of himself, as played by Lon Chaney.

"Is Dove around?" Jefferson asked them. He really did look as though a good, solid poke would send him screaming.

"Jefferson!" Belle gasped. "Jeff, these burns are really bad. I think you need to see a doctor!" She rose from the table and began to take stock of the First Officer without actually touching anything.

"Nonsense," Jefferson snapped, though he lacked the smarmy tone of pseudo-authority that Gold usually anticipated. "I'll slather on some aloe vera, use a dab of David's atomic sun screen, and wear something with sleeves. It'll be fine."

"It won't," Belle told him in a tone that brokered no arguments. David chose that moment to wander out of his own room, still wearing his swim trunks from yesterday. If Jefferson looked like a stiff wind-up toy, then David looked like a slumping zombie.

Dove and the pilots had arrived so late in the evening (or was it early in the morning) that Belle had already been asleep on the sofa, head cushioned gently on Gold's shoulder, and he wouldn't have disturbed her for anything. He knew the pilots, especially, had been in rough shape, but he hadn't seen the full display.

"Your lips are chapped and you look dehydrated," Belle told him. "And David looks as though he spent all night curled around the toilet!"

"Didn't," David muttered. "Slept in my bed and everything."

"Well get back in there and keep sleeping," Belle bristled. "Jefferson, I'll pour you some water, help you with that aloe, and see about finding a medic – David, you drink two or three bottles of water, please, and see if you can't eat something before you go back to sleep."

Rum slumped into his seat and stifled a groan; his visions of The Bikini turned to dust. The two idiots would have to ruin this for him, but he supposed that was the price he was going to pay for engineering a little privacy yesterday. With the help of his cane, he followed Belle and the pilots down the hall. If he knew his pilots – and, regrettably, he did – then he thought he'd better check on Mr. Dove.

…

David recalled, vaguely, something about a sea-plane. All things considered, this was fairly good progress over what he had remembered this morning, which basically amounted to what to take for a headache and how to spell his own name. Hadn't Mary Margaret told him not to drink too much if he was out in the sun all day? He just needed to listen and give Kathryn the divorce papers and then everything would be okay.

The sun was rising over the island (or was it setting?). It didn't matter – David felt more or less like a human being again, and he needed to use the bathroom. He spotted Jefferson sprawled face-down on his bed, a thick slather of medicated ointment glistening over his back, but was pleased to note that the sunburn looked significantly less angry and red.

"Feeling better?" asked Mr. Dove, looking up from his book of cross-words as David headed toward the toilet. It was sunset – definitely sun_set_ – if Dove had already settled in for the night.

"Much, thanks," David smiled. "But I don't quite… I mean, I think I dreamed that we were stranded on an island, or something?"

"Rum will do that to you," Dove nodded sagely. When it became clear that he wasn't going to elaborate, David resumed his quest for a little bladder relief. Events turned out to be a little more complicated than he initially anticipated, but several flushes, a tooth brush, and a long shower later left David feeling mostly restored.

"Should we wake Jefferson up for some supper?" the Captain suggested when he saw Dove a little under an hour later.

"Might be wise," said the enormous man. Dove, a man of few words and many talents, struck David as the type who didn't interfere with the schemes and idiocy of others (unless he was being paid to), not even if it would ultimately have been for their own good.

But Jefferson was already up, wrapped in a thin, cotton sheet– sort of like you saw in religious art.

"Dove, do you still have the card?" asked the First Officer.

"Of course. But I don't think Mr. G would—"

"Goldie is busy trying to impress Blue-Belle, isn't he?" snapped Jefferson.

Dove did not deny it, and David couldn't say he was surprised. Sometimes the sexual tension between those two was palpable.

"Right, so unless they want a very naked, very sun burnt First Officer wrapped in a sheet to join them, I think it's time for the administrative team at M3P to authorize another _team-building exercise_."

"I don't think they'll let you rent that plane again, Mr. Madden," Dove cautioned. "We brought it back over 10 hours late last time, and there was sand stuck to everything."

"It's already dark – we shouldn't have any trouble with the tides this time," Jefferson told him, as though that solved everything.

Wait, so there really _was_ a plane? But did that mean it was all real? Oh no. No, no, no. _Please_.

"What the hell did we do yesterday?" David trembled.

A maniacal glint took root in Jefferson's eyes and he produced – from somewhere under the sheet – a hauntingly familiar, silver coin.

…

Belle had been staring wistfully at the cliffs all day, where professionals and amateurs alike dove (or, more often, cannon-balled) the twenty-odd feet into the deep, clear water beneath. They'd cleared off after the sun went down, but from their dinner table on the bluffs she had a perfect view of the place.

"I think I want to try," she told Rum, eyes never leaving the cliffs. He choked on his steak.

"Belle, you could kill yourself!" he insisted, just as he'd insisted that afternoon when she first made the suggestion.

"I watched them jumping all day, and I think… if I get enough of a running-start, it should be fine. Really, Rum, I'm not asking you to jump with me. I know with your leg that it might not be—"

"That's not it at all," he groaned, quaffing a generous gulp of wine. The wine-steward refilled both of their glasses from the dusty bottle Gold ordered. "It's dangerous, Belle. It's reckless. I don't want to see you get hurt, I—"

"Sometimes you've just got to do the brave thing and hope that bravery will follow," Belle whispered.

"I don't think that saying was meant to be applied to amateur cliff-diving, sweetheart," said Rumford. He reached out and clasped her hand across the table.

No, that wasn't what that saying was supposed to mean. But since banishing Mr. Spencer to the other side of the resort, Rum had returned to his guarded, timid self, and while she appreciated that he always treated her with courtesy and respect, Belle was beginning to lose hope that he would ever show that same sexy, assertive streak she'd glimpsed on the plane.

She'd really thought that yesterday would be the day, but then… nothing. Part of her could understand his reluctance to let go of their flimsy, professional pretense; Rum had a problem controlling his temper, and he didn't always trust himself to remain rational. She couldn't blame him for that: his temper had cost him his son, and she knew that memory haunted him every day.

Belle adored the man, even his darkness, but she also knew better than to change their relationship dynamic on anything less than even, open grounds. She didn't want him to treat her like a piece of spun glass that would shatter the moment he showed any powerful emotion; Greg had done that, and it drove her mad. If they couldn't get to a place where Rum trusted her enough to let his guard down (and trusted himself enough to just be natural around her), then there was nothing to gain by just grabbing the man's lapels across the table and planting a kiss on him.

Sex was easy – a mutual sense of desire made it easier still – but Belle didn't want one of those passionate "arrangements" that enables both parties to strip naked and never speak. She felt, in her gut, that she had to let Rum set his own pace and just encourage him where she could if she wanted a real shot at making things last between them. But it wasn't easy, and being cooped up together in a tropical paradise made it that much more difficult not to simply slip between his sheets and let things sort themselves out in the night.

Her near-constant state of _wanting_ since they arrived was driving her crazy. She needed an outlet, and that brought Belle full-circle, right back to cliff-diving.

"Sometimes you've just got to take the plunge and hope for the best," she said, wishing he'd take the hint.

"Oh, I don't know about that," Gold hedged. "The ocean's wide, warm, and lovely, and it'll still be that way whether you fling yourself off a cliff or dip a toe in slowly."

_Kiss me_, Belle said with every muscle of her body, except – wretchedly enough – the ones actually necessary for speaking.

He didn't.

Belle wanted to scream, stuck in a hell almost entirely of her own making. He liked her. He really, really liked her, didn't he? And Rum was the kind of man you'd never stop fighting for, once you had him. He had to know that! Powerful, sophisticated women like Cora Mills basically threw themselves at him everywhere he went. Had his ex-wife really done such a number on him that he wouldn't even risk a kiss? In Jamaica? In the moonlight? Would he get there any faster if she paid the band to play "Kiss the Girl" from _The Little Mermaid_?

Belle got up, her pale yellow sun dress fluttering around her legs, and started walking toward the cliff.

"I'm doing it."

"Belle? Belle!" Gold was up and following her, but it wasn't more than a few yards from their cliff-side dining to the place where the men jumped, and Belle took a running start before anyone else could object.

She flew – really flew, not the pale imitation of flying she got inside of Juliette – over the cliffs and let her years of gymnastics and dance lessons take over. Her body arced in what she hoped resembled a swan's neck, her hands broke the surface of the water, and she slipped down into the warm, salty depths. For a few moments, she simply stayed there. Then, she began to swim toward the moonlight.

Belle surfaced safely, and filled her lungs with the sultry air. Her ears, however, filled with the sounds of a sputtering, swearing, splashing Scotsman.

"Rum?" Belle gasped, paddling over to him.

"Don't bloody do that!" he roared between curses. "Could have been killed… could have broken your neck!" He was a decent swimmer, but with his ankle he'd never be a strong one; the jump alone could have... and what the hell was he thinking? She knew for a fact that Rum did not like heights.

"Well then why the hell did you jump in after me?" Belle demanded, guiding them both back toward shallower waters.

"Because I can't lose you!" he shouted, and the moment their toes touched sand he pulled her in for a passionate kiss.

…

Dove was quite happy to sit on a private island, doing his cross-word in the moonlight. A little further down the beach, a bobbing sea-plane that looked a little worse for wear was happily moored to a copse of palm trees.

It hadn't taken much, really – the hourly rate for the plane rental was high, especially after yesterday's fiasco, but the great thing about small islands (as he'd pointed out to Mr. G) was that once you got there, there was nothing else that would cost the pilots any money. All they had to spend, in point of fact, was time. It was a savings, as far as team-building exercises went (Dove understood this to mean 'any activity which occupies the two pilots far away from Miss Belle and Mr. G'), and it hadn't taken much to get the bartender to tell them about the rumors of pirate treasure, drawing them a convenient map to a local reef on a napkin.

Of course, the part where the tides changed and left them stranded with the plane stuck in sand over 100 yards from the water hadn't been anticipated, but it hadn't been a bad way to spend the day, really. Not if you remembered to take it easy on the liquor and reapplied your sunscreen. Dove certainly had no intentions of letting that sort of thing happen for a second time, but if sticking it out until the waters started to shift again gave Mr. G and Miss Belle some much-deserved privacy this evening… well, he was only on 15 Down. Still a third of a puzzle left, and it was a very mild evening.

Mr. Nolan and Mr. Madden looked as strange as any two men he'd ever seen, wearing their snorkeling-masks and fins, and sporting waterproof torches.

Dove sat up to watch Mr. Madden dejectedly hurl another sea shell away. Some coins clinked in the pocket of his swim trunks – reproduction Pieces of Eight, eight for twenty dollars in the gift shop, a bargain! He still had five left, though they'd only found one of the three he'd dropped initially.

Maybe he'd toss another one the First Officer's way when he went back underwater; they'd figure it out eventually.


	15. Otter Creek

"Thanks so much, David," said the perky voice on the other end of the line. "I'm so sorry for the short notice this early in the morning, but there was a last-minute problem with the Mayor's office and the whole city fleet is down at Billy's shop, and then on top of that I have to re-test part of the habitat because the Mayor lost the report I sent her and my computer ate the file I was working on and—"

"Ariel, it'll be fine," David reassured her. "Deep breath."

"If there were anyone else I could ask…"

"Don't worry about it," David said. His phone started ringing before the sun even had a chance to warm the horizon, but he'd already rose, showered, and dressed prior to that. "I was up for an early call-time anyway. Besides, I have plenty of experience with this sort of thing, and I'm sure Mr. Gold will understand about the van."

The other line went quiet.

"Are you… sure about that?"

"Well, I mean, it's just the van, right? He rents out his van sometimes. It will be fine."

"Alright. But please let me know if there are any problems! I still might be able to find someone else for the transport. I'm really sorry to be putting you out of your way."

"Hey, it's fine," David said again. "This was my project way back when, remember? We started applying for those grants when I was still at the animal shelter. I'm thrilled to finally get a chance to help with something a little more hands-on!"

"Yeah, that money coming through was a big victory for us." She sounded calmer and happier again.

"It's going to be great. I know it."

"Thanks," she replied. "I'll leave the carriers out front of the Visitor Center. Don't worry about it if I'm not there – I've got a lot of work to do in the field. Just take them and go. Everything should be set up later this afternoon."

David reassured her again and hung up. Things were finally coming together for him. Well, mostly for Ranger Finns. But also for him!

No one ever expected that he'd be able to finish things, least of all Kathryn, but 3 years since last being employed by the Storybrooke Animal Shelter (prior to his massive career change, the full ramifications of which he hadn't quite understood at the time) the Storybrooke Wetlands Project was finally bearing fruit. It was all there in the Town Charter: they had the right to set aside land for educational purposes, for public benefit, and the Mayor couldn't stop them as long as they found outside funding resources. They even came up with enough to create an annuity to keep a certified Maine Forest Ranger on the premises, and everyone in Storybrooke took an immediate liking to Ariel Finns.

With her behind the project, they started making some magnificent progress. She'd promised them a positive environmental impact (which Mayor Mills translated to mean tax breaks), increased tourism, and an educational facility for their children.

Then that terrible business with the rig off the coast of Acadia National Park happened, and suddenly they had an opportunity to re-introduce a new (or was it old?) species to the region, previously hunted to local extinction. The Mayor hadn't liked that – new things typically didn't go over well with her, especially when she wasn't consulted for permission – but that hadn't stopped Ranger Finns.

That hell-or-high-water attitude was probably why she got along so well with Belle, David reflected; he saw the pair of them getting drinks at The Rabbit Hole on one of his dates with Mary Margaret, and they looked thick as thieves. He wondered why the plucky, red-headed Ranger hadn't contacted her good friend with the request instead of him – if anyone was going to sweet talk Gold into donating some of his equipment, it was Belle French – but maybe the rest of Storybrooke hadn't quite wised-up to the fact.

Well that suited David just fine. Maybe he'd finally get to be the hero, for a change.

Half an hour and about three hundred Scottish swear words later, his enthusiasm was starting to waver.

"I thought you might even lend us Juliette," David said, though it sounded more like a question than a comment – even to his own ears. "The guys from Pilots N Paws always fly in."

"Gladly," sneered Gold, "This organization is neither a charity nor a veterinary clinic. And _pilot_ might be too optimistic a word for what you are in any case, Mr. Nolan."

David gulped. He looked back and forth between the sedate (but cranky) Scotsman and the large, white van with the words _Mr. Gold Pawnbroker & Antiques Dealer_ in fine script on the back. He knew better than to press his luck, he really did, but it was just so anti-climactic. He could do better than a _van_; he was a Pilot now! That'd really show Kathryn.

"Be back at the air field by 3 and be prepared to clean up any of the cargo's… leavings," Gold glared. "When Milah shows up with Neal, I want you both ready to fly."

Belle gently took his hand, and Gold unclenched his fist. David tried not to stare, but he was grateful when some of the scowl-lines engraved on the older man's face relaxed a little. Something changed between them in Jamaica.

He had to remind himself to focus on the positive, that's what Mary Margaret was always saying. It was lucky they were able to go at all, since Gold scheduled them to fly that day. Bitter experience had taught him that they almost never flew when Gold's ex-wife pulled his strings like this, and he'd made his case as carefully as he could – but it still went over about as well as a hand grenade in the office.

After conversing through a proverbial mine field of negotiations with Gold, the older man conceded that Milah had never showed up with Neal before 4 PM. And, as long as his pilots were back on-stand before that, he'd be willing to let David carry on with his volunteer work with M3P vehicles, on M3P time. For a tax write-off. And a favor. Not because he cared about nature.

Gold really had gone out of his way to be horrible about it, but he was letting him go ahead with the plan. David didn't mind: he would finally get to be the hero (though it would have been much more impressive if Gold would see reason and lend him Juliette for a couple of hours).

David looked back at the van. Maybe it wasn't so bad. Jefferson even decided to help out, as opposed to spending the day cooped up in Gold's office. Gold didn't like that at all – if he was going to be down a Captain, he felt entitled to his First Officer, just in case Neal showed up – but Jefferson had somehow wriggled out of it.

"We'd get there and back in less than two hours if you let us fly. They have a landing strip inside Acadia, and the Ranger up there said—"

"No," Gold told him. "You are not bringing a… a…"

"A romp," Belle supplied. Gold quirked his eyebrows as he processed this. Well, she'd know, wouldn't she? Belle was infinitely clever about things like that.

"You are not bringing a _romp_ on board my jet." He tossed the van keys a little too violently, and the David ducked.

Well, David sighed, he supposed that settled it. At least he wouldn't have to call Ariel back with bad news; that was better than nothing.

…

Rumford winced as his van left the air field. The two idiots were hardly qualified to transport and relocate wildlife, but apparently Belle's darling Park Ranger was too busy dancing to the tune of Her Majesty's office to do it herself. And, according to his Pilot, he needed to "do his part for the environment." If it had been up to him, he'd have told David and the damn environment to bugger it, but things were a little more complicated than that.

At least he got a solid promise from David not to let Jefferson behind the wheel. He couldn't imagine the kind of havoc a wild card like Jefferson (who probably drove like he flew: recklessly) might cause in an over-size vehicle on the highway, let alone when they got to the twisting back-roads of the Park.

"They better be back by the time Neal gets here," he muttered as the van left the air field. Dove had been good enough to bring it out on short notice, but he had his own work to be getting on with. In the end, Dove took Gold's Cadillac back to town, and arranged to return with it later to exchange it for the delivery van once more.

"I'm sure they will be," Belle smiled, squeezing his hand in hers. Her eyes were sad, and it didn't take a genius to tell what she was thinking: Milah wasn't going to bring his son. She almost never did. Belle was just too kind to contradict him.

But Rum wasn't a fool. He knew there would have been no point in keeping David and Jefferson at the air field all morning, waiting on Milah's whimsies. It was a step. Whether or not the phrase "in the right direction" would ever apply to it remained to be seen, but for now he was content with the stepping portion.

"I brought some pastries from Granny's," she grinned a little bashfully. "Are you ready for breakfast? I could make tea—"

Gold pressed a chaste kiss to her cheek. "Sweetheart, that sounds lovely."

They ate in the comfortable silence of his office, enjoying the last hues of sunrise through the plate-glass window. The painted letters, spelling out "My Money, My Plane" over the glass, cast mirror-image shadows on their tea things. Damn, it was past 7 already.

He snuck a peek at the pile of legal documents on his desk. It had seemed so simple when he decided to file for more custody. He looked back at Belle. Would she want to stay with him with an energetic child running around? It had all seemed so simple when he started drawing up his papers; as long as he was careful not to tip Milah off, he might even get a few weeks of peace before it hit the county court house.

But now… He just didn't know. And it was way too soon to start talking about co-habitation and children and combined bank accounts. He didn't want to scare her off, now that he'd finally found her.

Worse yet, what would Neal think of it all?

"What if they don't make it back?" Gold asked. He was proud that his voice didn't waver.

"Actually, I was talking to Ariel about her work the other day," said Belle. She brushed a bit of jam from her lip and delicately licked it off the tip of her finger. Gold gulped.

"It sounds like they have a really exciting area for children at the Visitor Center. She set up aquariums with turtles, fish, and frogs, and lots of activity stations throughout the park. I bet she'd let us in for a sneak peek – and Neal would love it."

"But he likes to fly," Gold paled. That was the plan. It was always the plan. He wanted the boy to have nothing but ecstatically happy memories of the time they spent together, no matter how much he hated being in the air.

"I've never heard of a kid his age who didn't like frogs and mud," Belle smiled. She gently tipped his chin up, so that his eyes met her gaze. "If Milah calls before they get back, we can still have a nice day. It's very educational, I'm sure she couldn't object."

"What if… what if he's disappointed?" Rum asked. Where Belle was concerned, he'd found it shockingly easy to let his guard down after that first night, covered in sand and salt water. When they were alone, it was easy; in a crowd, there was just too much pressure to keep up appearances, but Bell understood. Somehow, she understood, and she was patient with him.

He almost felt as though he could take her on a date – the kind of date she deserved, without his awkward posturing to ruin it – some place that wasn't two towns over and well outside of the average Storybrooke resident's price range.

"Rum, your son loves you. You don't need a plane to keep him interested, you just need to relax a little and play with him. He's very bright and creative."

He just about had to kiss her for that – a day spent curled up in his office with Belle, no Pilots around to ruin it, sounded exactly like what he needed to calm down – but then his office phone started to ring.

"Hello?" Gold said, limping across the room to answer it. "Yes. Yes, of course. Obviously. Half an hour is fine."

He dropped the receiver unceremoniously onto the cradle.

"That was my ex-wife," he said, turning unsteadily toward Belle. "She said the nanny called in sick, and she's got an appointment she can't miss. Neal's going to be with us for the day."

…

"You… you… you clot!" Jefferson snapped, swerving back into his lane as they passed a sedan. At least Gold's van could get up some speed.

"I'm not a clot," David groaned. He slid down further into the passenger seat. They were nearing the Welcome to Storybrooke sign. "What's a clot?"

"Well you know the way you are and the things you do? Those are the ways of a clot. An airhead. A dimwit. A perpetual chowderbrain."

"Well if I'm such a clot, why did you just assume I'd remember? If I'm so horribly, perpetually dimwitted, then you shouldn't expect me—"

"You are the Captain of an airplane!" Jefferson all but bellowed, barreling down Main Street. "I didn't realize you were that much of a clot!"

"It'll be fine. It'll be fine. We're only… what? Three hours down? We'll go out to the Wetland Preserve, pick up the animal carriers, turn right around, and be back on the road to Arcadia by…" David made a worried little whine in the back of his throat. "No, no, no… we'll never make it there and back by three; we've lost too much time!"

David picked up his phone and Jefferson checked his mirrors. There was no one behind him, so he spiked the brakes. David's phone flew into the dash, clipped the windshield, and slid over the leather finish.

"David," said Jefferson in a voice as artificially calm as he could make it. "Who were you calling?"

"Mr. Gold, of course. I'm sure if we explain, he'll—"

"Thought so," snipped Jefferson. He snatched up the Captain's phone and slipped it into his breast pocket, then hit the gas. They turned down the old road out to the new park, pulled into the parking lot, and slid the van in between the only other cars in the lot. Oddly enough, one of them looked a lot like Belle's old car.

"We have to call him, Jefferson," grumbled the Captain as they got out of the vehicle. "I can't let everyone down, they're expecting us to pick up those—"

"Yes, and we will pick them up," Jefferson insisted. "But we don't, as it happens, have to contact Gold. We would, in fact, be better served by pretending none of this ever happened and claim that we got lost on the way back. There's nothing Goldie can do about that, can he?"

"I wouldn't be so sure, dearie."

Jefferson thought he felt ice form at the base of his spine.

"Mr. Gold," David stammered. "What are you, uh, doing here?"

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" he seethed.

Jefferson looked around for something to hide behind, spotted Neal and Belle in muck-covered wellies, and headed toward safety.

"Well if it isn't Captain Neal!" he chirped, picking the boy up for a giggly swoop through the air, playing airplane. "What orders, Sir?"

The boy just giggled and presented him with a glob of something fuzzy.

"We found an owl pellet," Belle explained. "We were going to head indoors to the Little Ranger Work Station and see what's inside it."

Jefferson examined the disgusting blob of undigested rodent bits as though it were the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen, carefully avoiding the argument going on behind him.

"Where's Juliette?" the child asked, handing Belle the pellet for safe-keeping. He looked around expectantly for the plane.

"Back at the air field, Captain," grinned Jefferson. "We drove your Papa's van today."

Neal found the idea of Jefferson and David driving something as ordinary as his father's van infinitely diverting, and zoomed over to tell his father all about it.

"Papa, Papa, did you know Cap'n Jeff and Mr. David can drive a car too?" he grinned.

"Can they?" Gold replied, but the venom had gone from him. "Oh my, we'll have to be careful with them on the road." He glared at Jefferson.

"We, uh, sort of had a cargo-flow problem," said Jefferson by way of explanation. "Apparently you need carefully furnished pet carriers to move a family of otters half way across the state."

He gestured to the neat row of kennels sitting just outside the door of the Center. "David forgot we needed to stop here first."

"Clot," bit Gold in the Captain's direction, but his heart wasn't in it. He ruffled his son's hair.

"Papa, Miss Ariel says we can see the otters!" Neal reminded him, tugging at his father's suit jacket with grubby fingers. "We can see them when they get brung here, right?"

"Well…" Gold hedged.

Jefferson grinned as the final piece of an elegant solution fell into place.

"We sure can, Captain!" he said, kneeling down to the boy's level. Two pair of big, brown eyes looked up at Gold expectantly. "In fact, you might even be able to help us rescue them. That is, we can if your Papa will let us take a quick trip on Juliette?"

Even if Belle hadn't remarked on what a good idea it was, Neal's squeal of absolute joy would have sealed it.

…

"And then I bet we can bring back a million otters, okay Miss Belle?" Neal asked, eyes wide with wonder.

He'd had a very busy day, Belle wondered that he didn't need a nap yet, but she supposed that an early bedtime would do just as well. She rather suspected that Milah wouldn't mind if they brought Neal home tired.

They'd dissected his owl pellet right on Rum's desk, using his pen and her tweezers, and carefully sorted all the interesting pieces into assorted sandwich baggies to show to Ariel later. Once the pilots filed the flight plan and Rum came to terms with the idea that he had not, in fact, been duped into something that required intricate and on-going thoughts of vengeance, they'd settled into the usual routine.

And then Neal had shown his Papa how high he could count.

"My lad, I'm not sure a million otters would fit on Juliette," Gold cautioned him. She could see that he didn't want his son to be disappointed with the ten or eleven otters they actually collected, compared to the boundless, furry friends concocted in his imagination.

Belle did her best to comfort him, but she knew open affection still made him nervous and they'd both agreed to keep their relationship private (well, mostly private) from the Pilots. She settled for holding his hand for a moment.

"Yes they can, Papa!" Neal insisted, the first hint of tired crankiness settling in. Well, she'd expected that. Belle got up and presented father and son with chocolate biscuit each when she returned: she knew exactly how to deal with cranky Gold boys.

"Well, why don't we count them?" Belle suggested. "How high can you count again?"

"A hundred!" he cheered.

Belle grinned back. He'd counted to a hundred three times already, with only a few moments of struggle intermixed, and she could tell that Rum was very proud of the achievement.

"I bet we can fit two otters into each of the seats," she told Neal, and they counted out thirty two otters in all 16 seats. They wrote it down in Neal's Little Ranger notepad; after all, Miss Ariel had told him it was very important for scientists to write down their experiments. They'd counted five frogs, six ducks, and about 30 tadpoles into the first few pages in their first hour at the Preserve.

"That's sixty eight otters left," Gold informed them. "Where else could we put them?"

"There!" Neal pointed to the over-head bins.

"Good job," Belle congratulated. She lifted him up and they opened a bin. "These are quite large, Neal. I bet we can fit two otters in each of these as well."

They marked down a further sixteen otters, and decided to get creative for the last 50 or so. Otters were counted into the galley (5), into the hold (10), under the seats (16), into the aisle (7), and into the drink trolley (2); they were even counted into the cupboards and garbage cans (3 and 2 respectively), and – despite David's protests – Jefferson assured them that they could fit at least 5 otters into the flight deck.

But there were still two otters left, and even the Captains were arguing about where to stow them. They debated the topic all through the landing, loading, and take-off, getting duly distracted by the real otters tucked safely into their carriers.

Just as Neal started to nod off in his father's lap, the familiar _bing-bong_ of the cabin address sounded.

"Two in the lavatory," announced Jefferson, without preamble, and the boy was up like a shot again.

Belle slid into the seat next to Rum and tugged him gently down to her lips. They'd mutually agreed that it would be best not to mix business with pleasure, especially on board the plane, and they hadn't discussed showing affection in front of his son at all, but in those few quiet moments before Neal got his second wind, she'd found herself unable to resist.

"I love you," she whispered quietly when they finally pulled apart.

"I love you too," Gold whispered. Then, after a pause: "Belle… if I… if I did get full custody, do you think it would… do you think it would change things between us?"

Her heart all but broke.

"Oh, Rum. No. No, of course not." And she kissed him again to drive the point home.


End file.
